When the Phoenix Cries
by Purplewitch156
Summary: Sequel to Of Your Making! When Fawkes' unexpected arrival upends their vacation, Harry and Tom find themselves flung into a parallel world, a world where Lord Voldemort rules Wizarding Britain with a young Death Eater named Harry Potter at his command. [Established Relationship, Drug Addiction, No Character Bashing, Major Character Death]
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

It's happening! It's finally happening! Thank you all so much for your patience. I hope you like what I've got in store, but before we dive in I want to STOP YOU RIGHT THERE. If you have not read _Of Your Making_, **please hit the back button and read it before starting this story.** _When the Phoenix Cries_ is a sequel. You will be far more satisfied and far less confused if you've got _Of Your Making_ under your belt. These two stories are very much interlinked.

**Second note:** This story will become explicit. Because of rules on this site, I've decided to post _up to_ the first explicit chapter. From there on I will be posting exclusively on Archive of Our Own. You do not need an account in order to read the story. I will give you a heads up when we reach that point.

Now, onward!

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* * *

**July 30, 1999**

Tom didn't need to check his watch nor the garishly tacky cuckoo clock mounted behind the sofa, which roared like a lion every time the hands struck twelve (a late Christmas present from one of Harry's school friends, Luna Lovegood), to know that they were very nearly late. He marched to the foot of the stairs.

"Harry, we need to go."

"If you'd tell me _where_ we're going, I'd know what to pack," Harry shouted back.

"Nice try," Tom replied, amused in spite of himself. "But I'm still not telling you. Just grab something and get down here."

A string of grumbles that sounded like curses drifted down the stairs. Tom smirked. He was enjoying this far too much. Tomorrow Harry would turn nineteen and Tom had been planning an extravagant celebration for months.

"He's never been out of the country," said Granger during a lunch in June. They had been gathered in the backyard of the cottage he and Harry shared. While Harry played with a toddling Teddy Lupin in the distance, he, Granger and Weasley sat around the tea service under a leafy cherry tree. "I think he'd like that."

Against his wishes, Tom eventually chose to confide in Weasley and Granger about his desire to shepherd Harry away. It was impossible to expect everyone in Harry's life to not ask pestering questions when Tom stated that he and Harry would be away for the occasion, so he'd enlisted help. Harry's oldest friends jumped to Tom's aid energetically, spreading in whispers that it was to be a surprise until the very last minute.

Since moving in with Harry shortly after Christmas, Tom quickly discovered that living with Harry also meant living with a horde of red-heads, a snot-dripping one year-old, and a constant stream of impromptu guests, though Harry would say he was over exaggerating.

"How much time are you taking off?" Granger asked.

"Three weeks," said Tom, pouring himself another cup of tea. Robards had been surprisingly relaxed about his two highest ranked Aurors taking such a long leave of absence.

"We won't be on call," Tom had told him firmly.

"Of course not," said Robards. "You'd think I'd drag you two back here over a few murder cases? I _do_ have other Aurors, Riddle. Enjoy yourselves."

There had been a gleam in Robards' eyes that felt far too knowing for Tom's liking, as if the Head Auror suspected that the surprise birthday get-away was merely the setting for a much larger surprise.

Weasley sat back in his chair. "You know, I don't even think Harry's been on a vacation. He's never mentioned one." He snickered. "Watch the hotel get burned down by a chimera. That's just his luck."

Granger kicked him under the table.

"I'm not taking him to Greece," Tom replied as Weasley rubbed his shin ruefully.

Granger looked around at him, excited. "You've picked a place?"

Tom nodded.

Granger and Weasley both stared at him expectantly and Tom found himself admitting, "Peru."

"Oh!" Granger cried delighted as Weasley said, with a grin, "So it'll be a Vipertooth."

"Ron, they are not going to be attacked by anything," said Granger, annoyed.

Weasley snorted. "Do you know the same Harry I do?"

Granger ignored him. She turned back to Tom. "It sounds wonderful. He's going to love it."

"Love what?"

All three of their heads whipped around. Harry stood before them with Teddy against one hip. The child's usual sandy-blond hair was now exactly the same as Harry's, even sticking up in the back. His metamorphmagus skills had been expanding rapidly in the last few weeks with him constantly copying those around him. It made taking him shopping in the Muggle village of Ottery St. Catchpole a trying task. Tom noticed, startled, that the boy had chosen to mimic his eyes today. He looked exactly as one would expect their offspring to look like, if he and Harry ever chose to do something like that, which he hoped to Salazar would never be the case. If anyone else caught the unsettling resemblance, they let it pass without comment.

"Love what?" Harry repeated, looking at them expectantly.

"That book you've been reading," said Weasley after a beat. He turned to Granger, snapping his fingers. "Toadstools of the … what was it?"

"Southern Hemisphere," Granger quickly supplied.

Harry's right eyebrow rose. "Sounds riveting."

"Oh, it is," said Granger, emphatic. "Neville couldn't stop talking about it. I had to give it a try."

"Kay," said Harry, eying them all suspiciously. "I'm going to wash Teddy up before Andromeda comes."

_And hopefully get the boy looking more like himself_, Tom thought, unnerved.

Like everyone, save for Granger, Weasley, Robards and Shacklebolt, no one knew who Tom really was. Or, if he was going to be precise, who he _used_ to be. To the rest of the world he was Thomas Thorne, a skilled and efficient Auror who happened to be dating his co-worker. To quote the Daily Prophet: _Thomas Thorne, Harry Potter's Chosen One_.

Andromeda visited the cottage at least every other week, bringing Teddy for play dates. She had lost a great deal during the war — her husband, her daughter, her son-in-law, but she had Teddy and she had Harry. Tom was rather impressed with how well she was coping. Though he had never spoken to the third Black sister, as she estranged herself shortly before Bella joined his ranks all those years ago, he found the woman's company surprisingly pleasant. It amused him how often he caught himself being surprised. After all, realizing he loved Harry Potter should have been the surprise to end all surprises. Funny how it was turning out to be just the starting point to an endless stream.

As Harry and Teddy disappeared into the house, Weasley turned to Tom and gave him a thumbs up.

"Doesn't suspect a thing."

Beside him, Granger rolled her eyes, both humored and exasperated.

"Toadstools? Really?"

Weasley shrugged. "What was I supposed to say?"

"You're hopeless," said Granger, but she was charmed.

And again, to Tom's surprise, with each visit of Harry's two closest friends, he too found himself charmed. Granger's brain was a scholar's dream and Weasley — for all his laid-back humor — was the bloke who'd wade into flesh-eating waters if it would save one of his companions.

Tom had never had something like that. He'd never had friends or confidants. He'd never understood the appeal. Not until Harry. And though he did not think of Granger or Weasley in such a light, he also did not mind them as he'd once thought he would.

Unlike, for instance, this lion clock. Waiting for Harry to appear, Tom stood before it, counting its golden, ticking seconds. Harry's insistence on hanging it up had been met by Tom's retaliation of turning their bedroom as Slytherin as wizarding possible. The sudden sounds of Harry's feet on the stairs had him turning.

"Okay." Harry set his suitcase down. "I'm ready. Unless I need goulashes."

Tom eyed the trunk. "You've packed everything, haven't you?"

"Yep. Unless, you know, I need goulashes. _Do_ I need goulashes?" Harry asked, still trying to wriggle the truth of their vacation spot out of Tom even though he was seconds from finding out himself.

Biting back a laugh, Tom flicked his wand and the trunk shrunk down to the size of walnut. Another twitch and it zoomed into his pocket, safely tucked away next to his own luggage. Harry took his offered hand, wearing the same excited grin he'd had when Tom first told him of the holiday. From his other pocket, he extracted the Portkey the hotel had sent by owl the week prior.

"We're not Apparating?" said Harry, surprised.

"It's too far. I don't expect you'd enjoy spending the first day recuperating from splinching."

Neither would he, matter of fact. He checked his watch and Harry placed his forefinger against the rather plain looking medallion. The only thing remotely interesting on its face was a small etched figure of a —

"Is that a dragon?" Harry asked, scrutinizing the coin. He grew even more excited. "Are we going to —"

He was cut off as the Portkey glowed bright blue. With a sharp jerk behind the navel, he and Harry zoomed across the Atlantic. A second later, Tom's feet hit solid ground and Harry stumbled against him, his elbow banging into Tom's ribcage. They had left their sitting room in Ottery St. Catchpole and now stood in the floo foyer of a spotless hotel.

At once, Harry turned on the spot, taking in his surroundings. A floor to ceiling window took up an entire wall, opposite a set of floos that whooshed periodically into life. Harry's mouth dropped open. He stepped closer to the glass.

"Where…"

"Peru," said Tom, stepping up beside him and taking in the stunning view. Like a bird's nest, the hotel resided in the upper crook of a mountain. "In the Andes. Ten ridges over is Machu Picchu, but this is a wizarding hotel so we are overlooking Ligero de Valle, an even more ancient civilization." As he spoke, a buggy drawn by flying llama took off from the wizarding city that gleamed before them, speeding its passengers to the neighboring mountaintop where more of the city sprawled, built precariously along the ridges. He cut his eyes to Harry. "Do you like it?"

When Tom had been choosing which scenic place to take Harry, there had been only one requirement. That it be as stunning as he was. As Harry turned to him, radiant with happiness, he knew he'd come close.

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* * *

**xXx**

Harry felt eleven again, wishing he had a dozen eyes. He followed Tom out of the arrival chamber into a large, open room. Intricate murals of gold, orange and green covered the walls, curling upward onto the high-vaulted ceiling. Harry craned his neck back, trying to take it all in. The murals _moved_. The colored stones shifted, forming the rolling mountain range that surrounded the hotel. Stones flickered copper red, sending a fleet of Peruvian Vipertooths soaring across the walls.

Like at the Quidditch World Cup, Harry stared at the foreign witches and wizards moving about the reception hall. Their robes were far more colorful and extravagant than Harry's and Tom's: brilliant reds and sky blues, stripes and diamond patterns. A wizard with a gigantic handle-bar mustache was speaking rapid German to who looked to be his wife and daughter. They each clutched colorful pamphlets.

Harry, tripping slightly on the thick, intricate rugs, hurried after Tom, who stood at the welcoming desk, speaking to a wizard in maroon-striped robes, a fancy badge of a Vipertooth pinned to his chest.

"Reservations for Thomas Thorne," Tom was saying, leaning casually against the desk and sliding the Portkey toward the clerk.

The wizard, who sported a pencil thin mustache that would have put Ron in tears, sent the Portkey zooming into a box behind the desk and consulted a thick bound book.

"Thomas Thorne, the Medallion Suite, checkout August 21st."

"Correct," said Tom.

Nodding smartly, the clerk looked up from his register and his eyes landed upon Harry, who'd been sifting through a stack of tourist pamphlets set on the counter. Like clockwork, the wizard's eyes flicked up to Harry's forehead and then widened, realization dawning.

Tom cleared his throat.

"Your key," said the clerk, suddenly breathless, holding out a glittering golden key inlaid with a copper stone. "Dezi will show you to your rooms."

With a sharp crack, Dezi appeared beside them, a house elf dressed in the same elaborate strips but in light green.

"Enjoy your stay," beamed the clerk.

Barely hiding his grin, Harry shot Tom a glance as they followed Dezi out of the reception hall and into a glass elevator. Upward it shot, gifting them a view of the hotel's gleaming interior as well as the mountains surrounding it. Harry had never seen anything so dazzling. He wondered how much this place cost. He knew Tom had funds squirreled away — anyone who'd spent five months in the stately Cornithia had money — but even he wasn't so confident that the pension of an Auror would be able to handle three weeks at this place.

Suddenly, some of the bright-eyed giddiness bubbling inside Harry wavered. He and Tom never talked about money. Even after living together for seven months, it somehow never came up. He didn't even know if Tom had gotten a Gringotts key. And this had all been a surprise. A birthday celebration, Tom had told him. A little getaway, just the two of them.

Little? How in the world was this _little? _If this was what Tom considered small, Harry wondered what he considered grand. Harry had pictured a cabin near a lake. Maybe do some fishing. Go on a few hikes. He had not imagined anything close to _this_. And at the thought, something suddenly hit Harry: how in the world was he supposed to top a Peruvian hotel in the cloud-shrouded Andes? When Harry had asked him in December what he'd wanted to do on _his_ birthday, Tom had looked at him blankly.

"Nothing," he'd said.

"Oh, come on. We have to do _something_. It's not every day you get to turn thirty-one _again_."

Clearly flummoxed by the whole notion, Tom had not argued against it and 'something' became a home-cooked dinner, two bottles of Tom's favorite vintages, a great deal of sex and (as a joke) an autographed record of Celestina Warbeck's greatest hits. At midnight, they'd bundled up and sat on the cottage's back porch, watching the New Year fireworks from the village down below. Harry had been rather pleased with himself, but now, watching the sunbathed mountains stretch on into the distance as the elevator climbed ever upward, he began to wish he'd done something else — something with a little more flare, a little more drama, something that could have stood up against a hotel perched on the tip top of a mountain.

The elevator's glass doors opened onto a golden-tiled floor. Dezi tapped a polished door on the landing with his finger.

"The Medallion Suite," he announced with a bow. The door swung open and Harry's jaw dropped yet again.

"Will my lords be needing anything?" Dezi asked.

"No, thank you," said Tom, casually glancing over the expansive sitting room before him. "Though — when is the restaurant serving?"

"The Sirenia has closed now from serving lunch, my lord, but shall reopen again at seven forty-five. The bar, however, remains open. Room service is always available."

Harry thought Tom murmured something else. He didn't catch it, too busy taking in the Medallion Suite. It wasn't _a_ room. It was _five_. Five rooms. An enormous bedroom with a stupidly enormous bed, a gargantuan bathroom of gleaming azure blue tile, a sitting room with a wide balcony, and two others that Harry honestly didn't have the first inkling for what they were for. He slid open the glass door and stepped out onto the balcony. Wind whipped back his hair and his stomach swooped. The hotel was carved into the mountain's side, giving its guests a bird-eye view of the Andes and the city before it. The sun had been low when they'd left home. Now it was high overhead. By evening, his internal clock would be completely out of sorts. Harry heard Tom step onto the balcony behind him.

"Would you like to wander around the city before dinner or stay in the hotel?" Tom stepped closer when he did not answer. "Harry?"

"This is insane," Harry whispered. "Have you been here before?"

"Not here, no," said Tom. "But it is one of the top wizarding destinations. I thought it would be fitting."

"For turning nineteen?" said Harry weakly.

Tom smiled. The golden rays of the sun glinted off his hair.

"Why not?"

Harry laughed. "Wait until Ron and Hermione find out about this!"

"Well," said Tom, "they actually already know."

"They do?" said Harry startled.

"Everyone fights over your birthdays," Tom stated. "It was my turn. Weasley bets we'll be attacked by Vipertooths." He turned suddenly serious. "Which are prevalent and highly aggressive. They circle before diving, so keep an eye for shadows. Their wings cause a distinctive vibration and their call is — "

With a step, Harry closed the distance between them, wrapping his arms around Tom's neck.

"Dezi said the bar was open?"

"I do believe he did."

"Maybe we could order up a few drinks while we decide what to do," Harry suggested, smiling slow and sly, the sort of smile he knew made Tom's heart beat a fraction faster. "I grabbed a lot of pamphlets. It might take some time to decide what to see first."

"Oh," Tom breathed, "it'll take _ages_."

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* * *

**xXx**

The rain fell so fast and strong that Severus grew damp, regardless of the repelling charm he'd placed upon his robes. Beside him, Avery shifted, his dragon-hide boots squelching in the mud. In the distance stood a cottage. Pale lavender smoke curled up from the chimney, just visible through the sheets of rain. The unease that had formed when the Dark Lord assigned him and Avery to this location intensified, crawling like ants on his skin.

"Are they ever going to show?" Avery snarled, the long wait in the rain making him short-tempered.

Severus shot Avery a warning glare, but in the heavy downpour he was sure the man missed it. It wasn't wise to speak ill of the Dark Lord's son, not because the man was omnipresent, but because if he found out — and he usually did — you were better off dead.

A sharp crack, followed by a heavy presence — like the pressure against eardrums when you swam too deep — had Severus and Avery turning. At once, they bowed.

"General," they murmured.

The Dark Lord's son, tall and dark haired, approached them, a smaller figure following in his footsteps. Riddle had brought Potter. Severus' unease tripled. They passed Severus and Avery, and as they did, Severus tried to catch Potter's eye, but the boy's face was hidden under the hood of his cloak.

Without comment, Severus and Avery stepped into line, trailing after them. Half a yard away from the front door, Riddle stopped.

"Gather the prisoners," he ordered.

With another crack, Potter vanished. A second later, petrified screams sounded within the house. Red light flashed across the windows as Potter attacked. Avery quickly followed, and with grim resolve, so too did Severus. However, as their feet hit the warped flooring of the old house, there was very little left for them to do. Potter was an efficient spell caster. Crouched on the floor, bound by invisible ropes, the Delacours trembled.

Again, it was the heady weight of magic in the air that alerted them of Riddle's presence. Like his father, he could Apparate and Disapparate silently, a feat Severus had only known from one other wizard.

"Monsieur Delacour," Riddle greeted. "You have been very foolish."

"Please," said Delacour, shaking from head to foot, his round face glistening with sweat. "Lord General, we 'ave done nothing—"

"Nothing?" said Riddle lightly. "Smuggling illegal Portkeys into England is nothing?"

"We are not doing such a thing!"

"You tell me these are not your work?" Riddle asked, tossing a small bag from his pocket onto the floor. It fell with a clatter, a host of tin cans and tarnished lockets spilling from its opening. "Are you quite sure? Be very, very careful, monsieur."

"There has been a mistake, my lord!" Delacour cried, but the man was no liar.

"Did you honestly believe the Dark Lord would not sniff you out?" Riddle asked. "There are no secrets from him, Delacour. He knows. He always knows."

Next to Delacour, his wife squeezed her eyes shut and their daughter paled even further. The girl began to whisper something in rapid French. Severus wondered if it was a prayer.

Riddle lifted his wand.

"Please!" Delacour cried. "Please, my family did not know! Spare them! Punish me! Please!"

"The Dark Lord does not _spare_," Riddle spat. "You should have known better, Delacour."

"Wait."

Riddle paused and glanced at Potter. The boy's hood had fallen back in the attack and his eyes — _Lily's_ eyes — scanned the opposite wall. The Delacours stopped breathing as Potter walked toward a tall chifforobe. He yanked it open and a young girl with the same silvery blond hair and pretty face as her older sister was revealed.

"No!" the eldest cried as Potter pulled the girl out from her hiding place. "No, please! She is just a child!"

Potter ignored her. He dragged the sobbing girl to her family, encasing her in the same invisible ropes as the others.

"Harry, why don't you do the honors," Riddle said pleasantly.

"No!" The eldest was beside herself, her face wet with tears. "Have mercy! Have mercy!"

But there was no mercy in Potter. It had been carved out years ago. He raised his wand.

"_Avada Kedavra!_"

Severus shut his eyes but the blinding green still burned through the closed lids. Heavy thumps, like sacks of flour dropping from a great height, sounded through the room. The Delacours were dead.

"Collect any Portkeys," Riddle ordered to Severus and Avery. "And then burn it down."

Avery jumped to work, stepping over the Delacours as if they were driftwood. Riddle Disapparated in a silent blink and Potter's face shifted. His eyes finally met Severus. Severus returned it coldly, which was easy when it came to Potter. The boy was a disgrace. A coward. He did not deserve Lily's eyes. The boy looked at him and it happened so quickly, Severus wondered if he'd imagined it, but something flickered in the brilliant green. Something almost … almost …

But Potter turned away, following Riddle with a sharp crack that shot about the bricked house like a starting pistol.

Severus shook himself back to reality and joined Avery in searching the house. He had wasted too much time and energy hoping Harry Potter had not been lost when it was clear as day that Lily's son was gone.

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* * *

**xXx**

Space condensed and then expanded as Tom appeared in the entrance hall of Riddle House. At once, Borfin, the house elf, snapped to attention.

"Master Tom," Borfin murmured, bowing so low his tapered snout touched the floor. "Our Lord waits for your presence in the drawing room. Shall Borfin send up tea?"

"No," said Tom, frowning slightly at the news. "That will not be necessary."

"Very good, Master Tom," said Borfin. Without rising up from his bow, he vanished with a snap.

Tom strolled through the house and entered the wood paneled room with barely a glance at his older self. He headed straight to the wine cabinet.

"The Delacours?" Voldemort asked, voice soft.

Tom made his decision and poured a large measure. He faced Voldemort and sat at the table, crossing his legs. "Handled."

"Excellent. I expect there are others providing black market Portkeys, but we shall sniff them out. How did Harry do?"

"He is unflappable."

Almost in afterthought, Tom's eyes scanned the tabletop where he'd had Harry that morning. The boy's fingers had left smudges on the polished wood. Those marks were gone now, Tom noticed. Borfin had made his cleaning rounds.

The room was brightly lit and Voldemort's pale skin and brilliant eyes burned all the brighter.

"Do you believe he's ready to try again?"

"Close, perhaps," Tom replied, "but not yet."

Voldemort quirked a hairless eyebrow. "He has been 'close' for some time now. Have you grown attached to your pet? Are you worried at what will be required if he is ready?"

Tom released a soft laugh. He set his glass down on the table. "You tasked me to get him ready. He is not."

"Not ready in what regard?" Voldemort replied. Tom knew that as Voldemort's voice grew more delicate, so too did danger rise. He knew this, as they were one in the same. "Not ready to try to claim the Silence or not ready to pleasure you in every conceivable manner your mind conjures?"

"Do you disapprove of my handling of the boy?" Tom asked, just as delicate.

"I am merely here to remind you that hearts are treacherous organs," Voldemort hissed. "Lose grip of them and tragedy can befall. I am surprised you have forgotten that, seeing where you spent so many years."

The lightness of Tom's countenance vanished. His voice hardened. "Are you threatening me?"

He was not going back into the locket. He'd been freed for too long to go back. If a duel with himself was what was necessary to make sure of that, then he most certainly would.

"There are others," Voldemort reminded him coolly.

Tom's mouth ran dry. He could fight Voldemort — he might even win — but he did not know where the locket was hidden. Only Voldemort knew that. With a snap of his fingers, he could entrap Tom like a genie in a bottle and he would never be released again. His phantom fingers would not touch. He would not taste. He would not hear. He would only remember and even memories, with enough time, faded.

Incredible. Tom had always been aware of self-hatred, but he'd never experienced it before.

"The boy will be ready whenever you wish him to return to the temple," said Tom, expressionless. "Shall I call for him?"

Humor gleamed in Voldemort's red eyes. "Thank you, but not today. After all, it was not Harry I wished to speak to on this trip. You know I detest coming here, Tom. Do not make me do it again."

Without another word, he Disapparated, taking the little warmth in the room along with him.

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* * *

**xXx**

Harry entered his bedchamber and immediately undid the fasteners of his robes. They slid from his shoulders and heaped around his feet. He kicked off his boots, unhooked his belt, unbuttoned his trousers, nearly ripped his shirt in his frenzy to yank it off. It was sticky with sweat. Though his chamber was always charmed to stay at a perfectly comfortable temperature, his skin turned to gooseflesh.

He needed another.

His legs jerked as he lurched to the wardrobe, the faint tremors in his hands building as his search grew frantic. Glorious relief washed over him as he extracted a small vial from the depths of his socks. He popped the cork and drank the contents in one go. His heart calmed, cool detachment spreading over him as the potion worked through his veins, numbing him. Stilling him.

Breathing steady now, he entered the bathroom, climbed into the claw-footed tub and turned on the tap. His head fell back as the tub began to fill, water creeping up his shins and slipping over his stomach. He stared up at the ceiling, the room softly lit with the floating candles Borfin had ignited. Harry wondered how the elf always knew the instant of Harry's arrival, popping into his room and lighting the candles and fireplace with a snap of fingers, departing possibly seconds before Harry himself opened the door.

He wondered if Tom was in his own chambers or if he'd gone to the Ministry or even to the Dark Lord's palace to report the Delacours were no more. He wondered if Tom would call for him tonight, and if he didn't, whether he would mind if Harry joined him without invitation. The emptiness was getting harder to ignore. Even with Euphoria, Harry found the potions wearing off too quickly, that gaping chasm in the back of his mind staring at him with increasing intensity.

Harry had felt the girl's magic like the frantic beats of a trapped bird. If he had to make a guess, he'd say she'd been younger than he by five years. He could have ignored the quick pulsations. He could have left her there, hiding amongst the dishes.

But Snape or Avery would have discovered her in their search for the Portkeys. She was already dead, like the rest of her family. Better to die together than to die alone. Better not to have to listen and know you were next. That was better. That was —

A flash of red made him look down. His heart turned over. The bath water was red — no, the water was blood. Thick, warm, sticky, glutinous blood. It stained his skin, sticking to him like tar. It rose, splashing viscously over the edges of the tub, spreading across the tiled floor.

Harry lurched forward, his hand slipping on the knob as he turned off the tap. He shut his eyes and held his breath, listening as the blood splashed onto the floor. Was it slipping under the door jam? Was it seeping into the fine rugs? Borfin would be furious.

When he gathered enough courage to look, the blood had gone, returned to water, clear and sparkling.


	2. Chapter 2

Harry made a mental note to ask Dezi what brand of sheets the hotel used. They were heaven. Slowly, he came awake, but kept his eyes closed. Tom's fingers stroked his arm, shoulder to elbow, elbow to shoulder. Harry smiled into his pillow as lips joined the fingers, chaste and soft, the opposite to the bruising kisses Tom had administered the night before when they'd tested the bed's springs.

"Happy birthday," Tom murmured.

Harry rolled onto his back, his own greeting on the tip of his tongue, but it was lost as he saw —

"Tom?"

"Yes?" Tom asked, kissing his neck.

"Why are there flower petals on the bed?"

Tom lightly bit his earlobe. "Why not?"

Harry blinked. Twice. Completely thrown, he fumbled for a response and instead spotted the ice bucket on the table next to the bed, morning rays bouncing off the bottle poking out of it.

"Is that Champagne?" said Harry, startled.

Against his skin, Tom's lips curved into a grin. "Why not?"

"Okay. That's it." Harry struggled to sit up and Tom shifted back to let him. As he did, petals slid, pooling around them. "What's going on?" he demanded. "I cook you _bouillabaisse_ for your birthday and you turn around and do all _this_? Peru? Roses? Champagne? _Roses?_" Harry repeated, so stuck on the image of petals falling from Tom's wand that he felt like a record stuck on a loop. If the yew could speak, he wondered what it would have to say for itself.

"Isn't it obvious?" said Tom.

"That you're losing it?"

Tom laughed. "Maybe." He took Harry's hands in his. "Marry me."

Blood flooded Harry's face. For a full second he was sure he hadn't heard right, but Tom continued to watch him, waiting calmly for a response.

"M-marry you?"

"Yes."

"_Marry_ you?"

"That is what I said."

"But —" Harry felt like a fish out of water. "You don't want to get _married_."

"On the contrary," said Tom, suddenly serious. "I do."

Harry gaped. Frantic, he searched for something to say, something to help wrangle this conversation into normality, but all he could come up with was —

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why get married? Aren't things working the way they are?"

"Yes. Of course they are," said Tom.

"So why bring this up?" So relieved, Harry actually laughed. "Why complicate things?"

"What things does it complicate?"

"I —" Harry floundered again, growing unbearably hot. How did marriage complicate things? They already lived together. "It … it just does."

For the first time since beginning this painfully awkward conversation, amusement colored Tom's voice.

"That is not a strong argument, Harry. Do you want to marry me?"

Tom's hands were soft around his. As soft as his voice. As soft as the rose petals that covered the sheets like a flower festival.

Harry's heart hammered, his mouth dry. Was it normal when asked to marry someone to feel terrified? Harry had always imagined the question would fill him with elation, not make him sick to his stomach. He kept his eyes on their joined hands.

"Can I think about it?" he asked.

When Tom did not immediately respond, Harry looked up. Without his glasses, it was difficult to make out the fine details of Tom's expression, but he gently squeezed Harry's hands.

"Take all the time you need."

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* * *

.

In early December, Harry asked Mrs. Weasley if it would be okay to bring Tom to their Christmas gathering.

"The more the merrier," Mrs. Weasley had said. "Will he be bringing someone?"

Harry had stared at her and then he blurted, "He's my date. We're dating."

"You're—" Mrs. Weasley's laundered socks fell from her hands and Harry braced himself for the explosion, but instead, he found himself in a rib-cracking hug.

"_Oh, Harry!_ I had no idea. When did it happen? Oh, he's a lovely man. I met him when you were at St. Mungo's. Oh, _Harry_."

After giving her a quickly concocted half-true story of falling for Auror Thomas Thorne, Mrs. Weasley peppered him with questions: Which did Tom prefer, potatoes or yams? Was he allergic to sprouts?

"He'd say he's allergic to peas," Harry answered, rather overwhelmed, "but he'd be lying."

Eye color? Mrs. Weasley asked next, which Harry had answered, wondering why in the world this mattered. But as presents were opened and Tom, who did not expect anything, was handed one, the question became clear. Accepting it and looking baffled, Tom tore back the wrappings and Harry inhaled a great deal of eggnog as Tom pulled forth his very own Weasley sweater. Hermione fled as fast as she could before her peals of laughter burst their barriers and Ron had stared with his mouth agape. Thanking Mrs. Weasley politely, Tom tucked the sweater away, but the next morning, as Harry searched the spice rack for cloves, he spotted Tom outside the back door of his cottage, melting snow from the steps, wearing his new charcoal gray sweater, a silver T on the front.

It was moments like this that made Harry feel as if the world tilted under his feet. Tiny, almost insignificant moments such as sharing a Christmas dinner with the Weasleys and turning to find Tom chatting causally with Charlie about a recently proposed dragon sanctuary expansion in Wales. Harry would feel himself zoom outside of his body, staggered by the reality of what he was witnessing. Of what he and the man previously known as Lord Voldemort had become.

One day, maybe, these out-of-body episodes would stop. Perhaps there would be a time when he wouldn't have to reach out and grab the closest thing to keep from losing his balance when he thought back, reliving the road they'd traveled, riddled with bloodshed and fear and pain and then so much happiness. The panic attacks appeared in the middle of the night, simply triggered by the slow sound of Tom's breathing as they lay in bed. Harry's mind would go blank, his heart would turn frantic, and he would be hit with a sudden, overwhelming desire to bolt.

In hopes of getting past these unpleasant episodes quicker, Harry suggested Tom move in with him. They were, after all, spending most of their time together anyway, be it at Tom's flat in the Cornithia or Harry's cottage. It made sense. The constant packing and unpacking was annoying.

Harry had thought they'd been discreet, but by the time Tom moved in, the cat was amongst the pixies, as Mrs. Fig would have put it. Harry was as close to a celebrity as it was possible to be and in just his first few months with the Aurors, Tom had become nearly as famous too. The Daily Prophet splashed pictures of the pair of them across its front page whenever it could. It was only a matter of time before people got wind. But much to Harry's surprise, no one seemed particularly bothered by the fact that he was dating someone twelve years his senior nor that the someone was male. Harry expected _some_ kind of backlash, but even the gossip columns had nothing negative to say, practically gushing at how wonderful it was that Harry had found someone so dashingly handsome and charming and talented and smart and —

Harry had put down the February edition of Witch Weekly, unable to decide whether he was amused or horrified. Ever since the war, the presses had leapt back into Harry's camp, praising him for the smallest things, but Harry kept waiting for the smearing article to appear. In a moment of weakness he almost tuned into Rita Skeeter's radio program, but then thought better of it.

It was a bad habit of his, expecting trouble when there was none, but to be fair, trouble usually found him, knocking on his door at two in the morning. He had finally achieved something he'd never thought he would. Life was suddenly _normal, _full of things normal people did and yet an unease lingered, like a thorn trapped in his sock and no matter how many times the sock was searched, the offending sticker hid from view but stabbed sharply the moment the next step was taken.

And now, on his nineteenth birthday, the next step left him staggered and very nearly petrified. _Marriage?_ Could Harry really picture himself_ married_ to _Tom_? He imagined the ceremony. Tom in silver and black dress robes, a jeweled flower pinned to his lapel; he and Tom cutting a cake topped with miniature, beaming figures of themselves; Tom lifting a glass for a toast. The more Harry pictured it, the more insane it became.

Every time Harry felt a little more grounded … a little more at ease in their relationship, Tom grabbed him by the hand and spun him like a top. Weasley sweaters; nights at the Globe, surrounded by Muggles as they watched a Shakespeare play unfold, Tom's eyes nearly as bright as they were when he performed magic, utterly entranced; Teddy tugging on Tom's pant leg and Tom, with a roll of the eyes, hoisting him up so he could look out the window and watch the birds on the feeder.

_You're not supposed to do that_, Harry would think, heart swelling. _You're not supposed to __**want**__ to. You're not supposed to like any of this._

A part of Harry expected Tom to pull the rug out from under him.

"Enough!" he imagined him saying. "It's me or them! _Choose!_"

But Tom didn't. If Tom thought ill of his friends or Teddy or Quidditch Saturdays, he kept it to himself. He was, as Witch Weekly so eloquently phrased it, _impossibly perfect._

As they explored the mountain city, trying to decide where to have lunch, Harry shot Tom covert glances. Was he upset that Harry had not said yes, instead asking for time to mull it over? Was he angry? But Tom pointed out restaurants as pleasant and friendly as ever. Their fingers bumped and then interlaced. It was so easily done that Harry grew lightheaded, that same out-of-body spell swooping over him like the shadow of a darting bird.

"Is it too much again?" Tom asked quietly, noticing.

_Every moment with you is 'too much',_ Harry thought, but he grinned, squeezed Tom's hand, and said, "This is the best birthday I've ever had." Which was true. So caught up in the whirlpool of marriage Harry had almost forgotten how incredible all of this was.

The corner of Tom's mouth lifted and Harry felt the similar sensation he always did when he stared too long into Tom's eyes — that he was being swept away.

"Good," Tom whispered and then his voice turned brisk. They stepped in front of a menu attached to a restaurant's door. "What about this one?"

.

* * *

**xXx**

Harry moved closer to the door, better to read its offerings, and Tom got a whiff of the hotel soap. They'd spent a very long time in the bath, leisurely making their way through the Champagne, before boarding a buggy and flying into the city. Tom knew the dangers of divulging in fantasies. Therefore, he had not expected Harry to leap onto him with a delighted cry of "YES!" when he'd asked him that morning to marry him. He knew Harry far too well to have believed such a reaction would happen, even if it was the one he wanted. Harry was brazen, spontaneous, adventurous, but also wary. Also easily overwhelmed, especially, Tom noticed, when it came to him. Such behavior wasn't new. It had been so in the Carcerem, Harry growing unexpectedly frightened, as if he'd woken from a spell, suddenly realizing they'd been sleeping together and now they must _stop, stop, stop_. When it came to Harry, trepidation was a fluttering butterfly, never quite sure on which blossom it would land, but land it most certainly would.

It had been feeding rather frequently of late.

After Christmas with the Weasleys, Harry stopped sleeping.

After a Daily Prophet photographer caught them kissing in a secluded aisle of Flourish and Blotts and printed the picture for the world to see, Harry flinched when their hands touched. It only happened once, and in a rush to cover it up, Harry had wrapped their hands together so tight, Tom's fingers had gone numb.

After Tom offered to watch Teddy for an hour to let Harry speed back to the Ministry to be a witness in one of Granger's cases — a case he'd completely forgotten about and Granger had reminded him of with a stupendous Howler — he'd stared at Tom slack-jawed.

"I don't mind," Tom had told him.

"You — you don't?"

"No."

Even the peas Harry insisted on growing, Tom didn't mind. Or the lion clocks or the steady stream of guests into the house or the fact that Harry never put potion ingredients back in their proper places and left his shoes scattered about, booby traps in the middle of the night when one was blindly stumbling to the loo — _I don't mind._

Once upon a time he would have minded a great deal. Sometimes he enjoyed imagining how his past self would react to the choices he now made. The conversations always ended violently. Not that Tom wouldn't _prefer_ for Harry to suddenly decide that the only company he needed was Tom's. Of course he'd rather that. Of course he'd rather they both packed their bags and cut all ties, vanishing away to a hidden corner of the globe where there was no one to interrupt them. No one to pull them apart for even a second of the day.

But that was one of those fantasies he only indulged in once every blue moon. He knew Harry. Harry was not the sort of person who left people behind. Harry wouldn't be happy spending his days stretched out in the sunlight with nothing to do and no one to see. Harry loved too many people.

Which was perfectly fine, Tom reminded himself, because he was one of them. He was, in fact, the closest person in Harry's life. He'd even, for a time, been impossibly close.

When Harry had told him the truth — that Tom had accidentally made him a Horcrux — he had been horrified. Sickened. Disturbed. But now …

Now he longed for more than fingers, tongue and cock. He wanted to touch souls. He wanted to be so tightly interwoven that each heartbeat was _his_ heartbeat. Each inhale _his_ inhale. Each shuddering moan, gasp and cry _his_. Had the soul piece savored such sensations? Had it ever, for a moment, grasped how lucky it was to touch every cell that made Harry _Harry_? The desire plagued him so deeply that Tom returned to his old study, trying to find a way to possess without pain, to fill Harry with pleasure rather than agony.

Tom was pulled from his musings as Harry voiced interest in the menu and they entered the restaurant. A waiter showed them to a small outdoor courtyard made private from the street by vine-covered stone walls. The mountains were softened today by low hanging clouds. Tom thought he spotted a Vipertooth dart around a peak.

As Harry struggled to decide what to order, the waiter, filling their glasses with a point of his wand, went rigid. His eyes searched Harry's face and before either of them could do anything, their menus were lifted from their hands, the man insisting on serving them a full course meal specially curated by the chef himself, on the house: duck legs roasted to crisp-skinned perfection, delicate ceviche, potatoes enrobed in a vibrant sauce, seared slices of beef so tender they could have been butter. Lemony cocktails were followed by a pitcher of a plum-colored beverage, spiced with floating cinnamon sticks.

Harry was thrown by the entire meal, stunned as plate after plate levitated to their table. When the waiter brought an enormous bowl of fruit, all grown in the lush valleys, Harry rose to his feet and requested to thank the cook. Tom watched in amusement as, pink and fumbling, the waiter escorted Harry back into the restaurant. He chose a cherry-like berry from the bowl and peeled away its papery husk, watching the clouds roll over the mountains like waves in a sea.

Tom looked down at his left hand, picturing a ring on his finger and his stomach swooped. Like many things after the Carcerem, marriage was a subject that had shifted radically in his opinion. Before … well, before it hadn't even _been_ a subject. It had been like litter in a trash bin, unworthy of his notice. The very few times he had pondered the act, he'd found it lunacy.

But it didn't strike him as lunacy anymore. It was simple. It was right. So laughably right and now he'd done it. He'd set the wheels in motion and Harry would have to give him an answer. There was not a single part of him that feared Harry might say no. Of course he'd say yes. Like in the Carcerem, like in the previous summer, Harry simply needed time to adjust to the idea.

Harry reappeared, mentioning something about sky whales, had Tom heard of them?

"Of course," said Tom. "But they aren't usually this late in the summer."

"The chef said there might be a few stragglers," said Harry. He was bright eyed and rosy cheeked from the crisp, mountain air and too much alcohol. "Why not? He said the best time to see them is at dusk. What d'you say?"

Tom agreed. They returned to the hotel and as Tom pulled the key from his trouser pocket and unlocked the door to their suite, he wondered how quickly he could get Harry back out of his clothes.

_Twenty seconds_, he wagered, pushing the door open.

"Fawkes!" Harry cried in alarm.

Perched on the coffee table, next to a center piece of green orchids, was a phoenix.

Tom froze, one hand clutching the doorknob.

"Isn't that" — his lips twisted in distaste — "Dumbledore's?"

"Yeah." Harry hurried to the bird.

"Not looking too well," Tom observed, shutting the door sharply. As he spoke, three faded feathers fell from its breast. The bird was a mess, a half plucked turkey. It stood with hunched wings, its remaining feathers matted. A wide, jagged scar marred its face, running from one eye to the bottom of its jaw. "Does it usually visit you on Burning Days?"

"No," said Harry, concerned. "I haven't seen him since Dumbledore's funeral." Uncertain how to help, Harry hovered next to the phoenix. It turned its baleful eyes upon him and released a warbling croak. Two more feathers slipped free. "Maybe we should clear the area," he suggested, nervous. "I don't think the staff would like their suite catching on fire."

Tom rolled his eyes, one of their most common arguments rising to the surface.

"We do have _wands_," he reminded him as Harry moved the flower display and tourist pamphlets from danger. Honestly, sometimes Harry was more Muggle than wizard.

The orchids quivered merrily on their thin stems, trying to snuggle Harry's cheek as he put them down on a side table.

"I don't see why we have to douse the place with water if we can just move—"

"And what do you plan on doing with the bird?" Tom interrupted. "Shall I summon that elf?"

Harry looked at him as if he'd lost his mind. "I'm not going to leave Fawkes."

"Why not?" Tom gritted, patience slipping from his tightly held grasp. "It's a _bird_."

_Dumbledore's_ bird.

Harry crossed his arms. "You're not being very respectful."

"And why, pray tell, should I be respectful?"

Harry's eyebrows knitted into a slight frown. "Your wand." He jerked his head toward the phoenix.

All contents of their lunch vanished along with the rest of Tom's insides.

"_No._"

"Yep."

Horrified, Tom stared at the half-dead bird.

"You never wondered which phoenix—"

"_No_," said Tom, livid and conflicted and livid again. The feather from his wand came from Dumbledore's — _Dumbledore's_ — phoenix?

"Sorry," said Harry, though he looked on the brink of laughter. "How long do Burning Days last?"

"Varies from phoenix to phoenix," said Tom, still deeply disturbed. "Could be hours. Could be weeks." And as he spoke a realization hit: Harry wouldn't be interested in lounging about, relaxing, while a dying phoenix withered in their sitting room. Their entire trip could be sabotaged. Tom swiftly tried a new tactic.

"There is very little that we can do, Harry. It is their natural process. Why don't we inform the staff of the situation? I'm sure they'll make the bird as comfortable as they can while we —"

He could tell from Harry's thinned lips that he wasn't getting anywhere.

"Harry, it might take him weeks to decide to burn!" Tom fumed. "Are you really going to sit by the bird's side until he does?"

Torn, Harry hesitated.

"Maybe we could see if an elf would be willing to check in on him," he admitted.

"Excellent." Relieved, Tom reached for the satin pull rope by the door to summon one of the hotel's elves when a brilliant red light stilled his hand. Delighted — positive that the bird had decided to erupt into flames after all — Tom turned back to watch. Indeed, the phoenix was a ball of fire. Harry yelped and jumped out of the way. The phoenix lifted its wings and let out a tremulous, haunting call that made the hairs on Tom's arms rise, but instead of the fire reseeding, it grew until Tom winced against the heat waves.

"Tom, I think something's wro—"

But Tom did not hear the rest of Harry's sentence. The blistering red light from the phoenix washed out everything and then, quite suddenly, the light was gone, replaced with an unsettling gloom. Tom stood, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the swift change, his ears ringing as if someone had crashed symbols right next to his head. The energy from the phoenix must have extinguished the lamps.

"Harry?" Tom called, sunspots erupting across his vision.

"Tom?"

Harry's voice issued from the right, which was strange because he'd been standing on his left. Tom hurried in that direction and banged into a table that wasn't supposed to be there. Frustrated, he jabbed his wand and the lamps reignited.

For the second time in less than five minutes, Tom froze. His eyes darted about the room. It wasn't the suite's sitting room, but a bedchamber with light green pinstriped wallpaper and a tastefully proportioned four-poster bed, unlike the monstrosity the hotel had gifted them. The windows showed a stretch of manicured lawn instead of a mountain range. It was raining heavily. Light footsteps sounded and Harry, drying his hands on a towel, emerged from a side room that gleamed of white porcelain.

"I thought you'd already left."

Tom stared. "Your glasses."

Harry touched the frames. "What about them?"

Tom's mouth was very dry. "They're square."

"They've always been square," said Harry. "You just noticing that now?"

He moved into the room and as he did, Tom took a few quick steps backward.

"Tom? What's wrong?"

He looked like Harry, with the same messy, ruffled black hair and thin, narrow face and vibrant green eyes, but he was not dressed as Harry. Harry loathed formal clothing, but the person who stood before him wore the form-fitting trousers and double-breasted vest with the casual grace of one who'd done so his entire life. The sleeves of his silver-gray button down shirt were rolled up past the elbows and as Harry moved closer still, Tom's eyes zeroed in on a tattoo: a skull with a snake for a tongue.

"You okay?" Harry asked, frowning.

"I—" He looked like Harry, but this wasn't Harry. "You—" Tom's brain was blank. He couldn't stop staring at the Dark Mark.

A sly smile spread over Harry's face. "Was it too much last night?"

But Tom wasn't listening because the Dark Mark was on Harry's arm. The_ Dark Mark_ was on _Harry's_ arm.

Harry stepped right up to him, slid his hands up his chest and placed his mouth so close that his breath ghosted over Tom's lips. "I'd love to pick up where we left off, but you're late and so am I."

Smirking, Harry moved away and Tom felt as if he'd been dropped from a great height. Staggered, confused, and nearly choked with panic, he watched Harry pull on a set of robes and as Harry reached for a tin set over a fireplace, Tom realized his only thread to this hallucination was threatening to depart.

"Where was I off to?" he blurted. At Harry's startled expression, he added, "I'm rather disoriented."

If anything, Harry looked even more taken aback and then he laughed. It was warm and fluid. Exactly the same as the one Tom always craved. Maybe he'd been knocked out from the blast. Maybe this was all a dream.

"Wiltshire," said Harry.

"Malfoy Manor?"

"No," said Harry, laughing incredulously now. "The factory. Merlin, you _did_ have too much." He tossed in a pinch of floo powder, shot Tom another sideways grin, and vanished in a whoosh of green.


	3. One Feather

_When Harry met the Dark Lord he understood what it meant to stand before a god. _

He was eight years-old and had just been stung by a thistle wasp, jabbed without warning right in the thumb as he and Neville played hide and seek in the Gilded Maze.

"Potter," Snape shouted, his voice magically magnified to echo through the hedges.

Harry, startled by the sting, was just as startled by the unexpected summons. Lessons with Snape, or as he was forced to call him publicly, _Master_ Snape, were not again until three and Harry was confident he had not heard the bells of the South Tower ring. Neville's head popped into sight around a leafy corner, wide-eyed.

"_Potter!_"

Harry scrambled through the maze, Neville at his heels. Like most inhabitants in the Dark Lord's palace, Snape did not enjoy waiting.

"Yes, Master Snape?" Harry asked, reaching the maze's mouth.

The day was warm and so Snape's robes were unfastened in the front, revealing the black trousers and slim ebony vest he always favored. He glared down his large hooked nose at Harry with his customary scowl of disdain.

"Our Lord wishes your attendance in the Serpent House."

Manners and etiquette were not yet as fully instilled in Harry as he knew Snape would prefer. Beside him, Neville gaped just as openly as he did.

"_Now_."

As if Snape had brandished a whip, Harry bolted, running so fast up the pebbled path to the palace that stones flew. A part of him registered the immediate drop in temperature the moment he entered the North Wing, spelled to remain a perfect seventy-one degrees. It was a rule to never run inside the palace. It was also another rule to never leave anyone — and most especially the Dark Lord — waiting. Harry felt that on this particular occasion, breaking the first rule would be forgiven.

Arms pumping, he was a blur, boots skidding on the waxed marble floor as he turned a sharp left onto the Mirrored Hall, his reflection speeding along with him. Finally, he stumbled to a stop before the Serpent House, so named for the prized collection of rare and exotic snakes the Dark Lord kept inside. Though the North Wing belonged to him and Neville, access to the Serpent House was forbidden. Two weeks ago Harry's curiosity had won out and he'd slipped through the doors. Nightmares had plagued him ever since. Now, as he stood before the twin doors with their engraved serpents, he tried to bring back that reckless courage that had fueled him ten days ago. He hastily patted down his hair — though it did no good — and straightened his glasses. They were a new addition. He was still getting used to the square frames.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Harry pushed open the door and stepped into a jungle. All was lush and green and softly lit. Full grown trees covered in ivy and vines blocked out the ceiling. A winding, mossy path cut through the foliage and flowers, but Harry hesitated, uncertain if he should announce his arrival.

A thought hit him and Harry felt the blood drain from his face. Had he angered the Dark Lord? Was this a punishment? Was he to be fed to the monstrous Runespoor or — sweat erupted on Harry's brow — a basilisk? No one had seen a basilisk for centuries, but if anyone would have one, it would be the Dark Lord. Petrified, Harry stumbled backward, reaching for the door, but a voice, softer than a hiss, froze him on the spot.

"Running away, Harry?"

Mouth dry, Harry turned. Where a second ago the path had been vacant, the Dark Lord now stood. _Voldemort_. Another rule. The most important rule. Never speak the Dark Lord's name. Though he and Neville lived in the Dark Lord's palace, neither of them had ever glimpsed so much as a finger of the wizard. They'd seen him in pictures in the Daily Prophet, had passed his towering statue on their way to lessons, but never had they seen him in the flesh. Harry supposed it wasn't all that strange. A palace this large, set upon two hundred acres of private woods and gardens — if someone didn't wish to be seen, they wouldn't be.

"You lasted longer the first time," said the Dark Lord.

Harry's blood iced in his veins. He knew. He'd broken a rule and the Dark Lord _knew_.

"My Lord, forgive me! I didn't think — I —" Harry cut off, realizing that he was not bowing. He hastily dropped to one knee, lowering his head. If this was a test, he'd failed before he'd even started. All those lessons, all the endless rules, in and out of Harry's mind like buzzing doxies.

The Dark Lord's long robes slithered along the ground. Starting to shake, Harry didn't look up, not even when he knew Voldemort stood just before him. He felt those brilliant red eyes upon him, burning into the back of his skull. He'd thought it had just been a rumor, an exaggeration, but Harry felt that the words people used to describe Voldemort's eyes were not powerful enough. Liquid fire, perhaps. Or molten rubies. Or freshly spilt blood. Those were more fitting words for the Dark Lord's eyes.

"Do you enjoy my palace?" Voldemort asked.

Harry blinked, confused. He kept his eyes on the Dark Lord's robes, a black pool on the leafy path.

"Very much, My Lord."

"Would you not prefer to be with your family?"

His confusion mounted. Of course he would rather be with his parents. The six months between visits was torturous. The letter, regardless of length, always too short. And with each visit, each correspondence, Harry felt them slipping further away, like they both resided on separate rafts and each wave increased the distance between them. He felt that one day he would scan the horizon and not see them at all.

Harry floundered, unsure what to say. In his silence, his fear grew until he was strangled by it. He shut his eyes and waited for the curse to fall, but the black robes shifted as fluidly as water as Voldemort stepped back.

"Walk with me."

Stunned, Harry looked up into the Dark Lord's face. In the low lighting, his skin glowed porcelain. Harry imagined that if he were to stand in sunlight, he would be painful to behold. At Harry's lack of movement, Voldemort quirked a hairless eyebrow and Harry jumped to his feet. Side by side, Voldemort led him down the path, deeper into the forest. Harry heard the soft hisses of the Dark Lord's collection and spied glistening colored coils slipping through the underbrush.

"And your tutor?" Voldemort asked next. "Do you enjoy your lessons with Severus?"

"Master Snape?" Harry stammered, again feeling that he'd been handed a trick question. "He is an excellent wizard. I am very lucky to be his pupil."

Voldemort stopped and so did Harry. Remembering his lessons, he kept his face downcast, but a long, slender finger pressed under his chin, lifting his face.

"That is not what I asked," Voldemort said and the sibilant softness of his whisper continued until Harry saw the snake — vibrantly green — slither around the Dark Lord's shoulders; its forked tongue flicked at Harry.

"No," Harry stated and then, in a desire to clarify: "He doesn't like me very much."

"He detests you," Voldemort elucidated. "Detests you to the point that I marvel he has not chopped off your fingers."

Harry flinched and Voldemort lowered down so that their faces were on the same level. His finger never left Harry's chin and though his touch was barely there, Harry felt that the Dark Lord held him in a grasp tighter than a constrictor's coils.

"But he trains you," said Voldemort. "He teaches you and watches over you and makes it his solemn duty to help you become the greatest wizard you can be. Why does he do this, Harry?"

"I don't know, My Lord," said Harry, his heart pounding so loud he was sure the Dark Lord could hear each frantic beat.

"Because I told him to," Voldemort replied, eyes gleaming. "My servants do exactly as I say, regardless of whether they would rather not. Regardless of how much they loath their orders. Regardless of how they _feel_. Your parents, for example, handed you to me not because they wanted to but because I ordered it. You live in my palace — one of the highest of honors — because I see greatness in you. And one day that greatness will serve me. But fail me," Voldemort continued, his finger curving so the nail bit into Harry's skin, "and it will not be you Lord Voldemort will punish, but your mother. Your father. Do you intend to fail me, Harry?"

Terrified, Harry shook his head. It was a rule to never look the Dark Lord in the eye, but Harry couldn't have broken their contact even if he'd tried.

"Good," Voldemort breathed, smiling. "Now hurry back to Severus and have him see to that sting."

.

.

* * *

_**Author's Note:**_

Short little thing though it is, it is important. There will be a few more 'mini' chapters like this one that will explore specific, critical moments in AU Harry's and AU Tom's history in this AU world. Next chapter: we'll find out where Harry is!

As always, thank you for reading and commenting. 3


	4. Chapter 3

Fawkes' fire was like a spotlight in a dark theater — blinding and then gone. Harry blinked at his surroundings. He stood in the middle of a hallway that put him in mind of a stuffy office building. The white-washed walls were plain and undecorated, though surgically clean. No one was in sight, but he heard distant voices. Where was he? Where was Tom? What in the world had happened?

Without warning something hard banged into Harry's back. Jerking, he spun around and found himself face to face with Eddie Parker, his fellow Auror. Had Fawkes sent him back to the Ministry?

"Look where you're—" Eddie's mouth snapped shut. His eyes widened in fright. "Sir! I didn't see you! My apologies, sir!"

He clicked his heels and bowed like a pond bird bobbing for fish. Avoiding Harry's eyes, he hurried past, as if he feared that if he lingered he'd be attacked. Harry watched him go, stunned and even more confused. As Eddie sped down the plain corridor a large poster attached at the end of the hall caught Harry's notice. He walked toward it, heart thundering with each step. At the end of the hall, he overlooked an open warehouse floor. He clutched the railing, knuckles turning white. Down below, witches and wizards stood in long rows, brandishing their wands in a repeated swooping manner, transfiguring items that Harry couldn't make out from this distance, but colors flashed — lime green, soft lilac, powder blue. And above them, attached on the opposite wall from Harry, so large the words would be easily read from down below, was a black banner with a bold inscription.

_Magic is Might_.

Harry staggered backward. This wasn't home.

Tom. He had to find Tom.

Harry spotted a staircase leading down to the ground floor where the working witches and wizards stood. Should he just stroll out? In front of everyone? Would it be better to find a fireplace? He knew he couldn't Apparate, Anti-Apparition wards tickling like spider webs against his skin. Every second that he stood out in the open was a danger, except … Eddie had called him sir. Why would he have done that? And why was Eddie not in the Auror Department? Again, Harry took in the huge banner that seemed to cast a shadow of gloom over the entire building. Had he been sent back in time? Back to when he, Ron and Hermione were on the run? Back to when Tom had infiltrated Hogwarts and the Ministry? Back before the Carcerem had changed everything? But again, Harry was tugged to Eddie and their bizarre encounter. He hadn't _known_ Eddie when he was seventeen. So if this wasn't the past …

A memory from early November surged to the forefront of his mind: sitting cross-legged on his bed, pouring over the thin notebooks pinched from the Unspeakable Vaults, reading about pocket universes and Leeches and —

Phoenixes.

There'd been a short discussion on the possibility of phoenixes crossing dimensional planes. Had Fawkes …

Harry's stomach sank straight through the floor.

If this was another world, then nothing could be trusted. He looked left and right, trying to decide which way to go. Tom _had_ to be close by. He rushed back down the hall where he'd first appeared. It sheared off to the left and Harry, taking it, banged straight into Draco Malfoy. They collided with startled _oofs _and a breathy, girlish voice cried in alarm: "Harry, dear! Are you all right?"

Umbridge reached out a thick, stubby-fingered hand to help right him and Harry recoiled. Umbridge's bulging eyes widened even further.

"Harry, whatever is the matter?"

Beside her, Malfoy straightened his robes. He frowned at Harry, not with anger or derision, but with concern.

"Are you looking for the Lord General, dear?" Umbridge asked.

Harry blinked at her. _Who?_

"He hasn't arrived yet," Umbridge explained. "I'm expecting him any minute. Would you like to wait in Draco's office? You wouldn't mind, would you Draco?"

Harry swallowed, growing more panicked by the second. Why was Umbridge speaking to him like an aunt with her favorite nephew? And why were two Voldemort supporters chatting happily with _him_? As if Harry was … as if he was …

Harry felt faint. It couldn't be. He wasn't a _Death Eater_ in this world, was he?

"You look terribly unwell. Draco, help him," Umbridge insisted. "Maybe send for some ginger tea? I'll inform the Lord General you're here, Harry."

"No!"

Umbridge's and Malfoy's eyebrows rose. Harry had no idea who this Lord General was and he wanted to keep it that way.

"I — I don't want to bother him."

Umbridge simpered her girlish laugh and the hairs on Harry's arms rose.

"Don't be silly, Harry. You're not a bother to anyone. Draco?"

Malfoy nodded and Harry had no other choice but to step in line beside him, heading down a side corridor, just as stone-white as the previous one and leaving Umbridge behind. Malfoy shot Harry a sideways glance.

"What happened to your glasses?"

Harry hesitated for a half second. "I'm trying something new."

Malfoy snorted, but his smile was easy-going. Harry had only experienced such an expression from Malfoy once before, when he and Ron had pretended to by Goyle and Crabbe.

"And what are you wearing?" he asked. "Is it training day for blending in with the Mudbloods?"

Malfoy laughed at his joke and Harry cracked a weak grin, feeling sicker. He opened a door and Harry, tense, followed him into a handsome office. A cluster of pictures in ornate frames sat on a polished desk. Harry stared blankly as the entire Malfoy clan waved at him energetically. As Malfoy rattled with a tea set in a corner, Harry took a lurching step forward, a picture amongst the collection grabbing his attention.

It was him, sitting at a circular table in the Three Broomsticks. Pansy, Blaise, and Malfoy sat with him, all gazing at the camera, lifting butterbeers in a laughing salute. The sleeves of his robes were rolled up and Harry thought he spotted —

Malfoy pushed a cup of tea into Harry's hands, making him start. The concerned frown from before returned. No longer jovial, Malfoy said in a lower voice, "You're back on them, aren't you?"

Harry had no idea what Malfoy was referring to and decided it best to take a hasty gulp of tea. It burned his tongue.

"You are." Malfoy was suddenly furious. "You said you'd quit! Those potions are going to kill you! You're not supposed to take so many."

When Harry remained mute, Malfoy raged, "Dammit, Harry, you've got to stop blaming yourself. Longbottom turned traitor! It wasn't your fault!"

The world tipped beneath him. Malfoy, mistaking his unsteadiness, gripped him by the arm, his voice low, fierce and reassuring.

"_You did nothing wrong._ Honestly, Longbottom could have had it far worse. Death is better than Azkaban." He squeezed Harry's arm. "_You're not alone so stop acting like it_. In fact, you're coming to dinner. Six o'clock. No excuses." He brandished Harry with a smile. "We need to catch up. The General can't keep you to himself all the time."

Throat tight, Harry nodded. "Yeah. Sorry. I'll be there."

Malfoy looked pleased. "I should be with Mother during the inspection. You know how Umbridge drives her crazy."

"Yeah. Thanks for the tea."

"Don't harass the Mudbloods." Malfoy winked and strode out of the office.

For a full second Harry stood immobilized and then he set down the teacup and snatched up the photograph, watching himself get pulled into a conversation with Pansy, his glaring reflection bouncing back at him on the picture's glass. So he was mates with Malfoy, had no qualms calling Muggle-borns Mudbloods, and had … had … _killed Neville_?

What sort of world was this? Harry put the picture back down, shaking with a rage he hadn't felt since he was seventeen. It was time to leave.

He ran across the office to a fireplace. Two marble peacocks preened their white feathers on the mantel. Where should he go? Who could he trust? If he really was a Voldemort supporter, then where was he safe? And where — _where_ — was Tom? Was he in fact still in their hotel room in Peru?

The thought was too upsetting to consider. Harry glanced at the door. It didn't seem safe or smart to search the building, not while Umbridge and Malfoy and some General wandered around.

Decision made, he reached for the canister of floo powder. At once the peacock statues jumped to attention, blocking his hand.

"Password," they cried in matching high-pitched voices.

Password? Since when did someone need a password to access the floo? He tried to grab the tin anyway. The peacocks pecked him, tails flaring.

"_Password!_"

"I don't know the password!" Harry barked back.

"INTRUDER!" they squawked at the top of their marble lungs. "INTRUDER!" Their voices echoed all around him, magnified to an ear-shattering pitch. Harry scrambled away from the fireplace as the peacocks flapped into the air, pecking at his head. "_Intruder! Intruder! INTRUDER!_"

He fled into the hall as the peacocks swooped around him, trying to gouge out his eyes. Harry yanked out his wand, pointed it at one of the birds and it exploded, marble pinging against the walls.

"You there! Halt!"

Harry wheeled around. Two wizards stood at the end of the corridor, their wands trained on him.

"Stupefy!" Harry roared.

They dodged the spell, diving for cover around the corner, and Harry ran, the remaining peacock still shrieking its alarm. He raced down a different hall, feeling like a mouse trapped in a maze. Something grazed his shoulder as a spell missed him by inches, hitting the wall and leaving a sizzling crater. Harry took another sharp turn and wind milled wildly, jerking to a stop. Three more wizards and a witch were already in the corridor. They turned at his arrival.

"Sir," said the witch at the sight of him. "The alarm —"

"He went that way!" Harry bellowed, pointing to the right.

They charged in that direction and Harry scampered down another hall, coming upon a staircase. He flew down it, meeting more wizards dressed in the same black and red robes as the ones in the halls.

"Seal the exits!" one of them shouted at the foot of the stairs.

"No!" Harry yelled, making the wizard turn. His companions clambered up the stairs and past Harry without a single glance. "I'll take care of that!" he clarified as the wizard stared at him, confused. "Find the intruder. He's up —" But the peacock had caught up with him. With a blood-curdling shriek, it plunged straight at him.

Comprehension dawned upon the wizard's face. He raised his wand.

"I have the intruder! Bates! Wells! He's impersonating Pot—"

Harry whipped his wand and the wizard's legs were pulled out from under him. He toppled head over heels down the steps. The pair of wizards that had run up the steps paused at the top, shouted in fury and charged back down it. Harry jumped over the groaning sprawled body at the foot of the stairs and ran, arms pumping. He was on the warehouse floor with its neat lines of witches and wizards. At the commotion, they paused in their work, turning to stare as he raced past.

Clothing, Harry realized, as he sent a giant cart wheeling behind him, blocking the wizards chasing after him. They were transfiguring clothing. Harry pointed at a rack of robes and they took off like headless ghosts, wrapping around the wizards in pursuit. With a furious squawk, Harry knew the peacock had finally been snagged.

The workers stood frozen, their creations hanging in midair and then, as if a starting pistol had sounded, they all bolted, running as fast and hard as Harry to a pair of double doors.

"Stop! STOP!" Umbridge screamed.

On his left a box of sequins exploded, showering him in pink and purple. Harry skidded to a stop, the only exit clogged with frantic witches and wizards trying to get out. He gripped his wand and turned to face the guards. He pointed his wand at the floor and it slicked like ice. The guards lost their footing, careening into each other.

The exit was nearly open. Harry sent boxes and robes flying. As buttons of every color filled the air like fireworks, Harry turned to dive through the doors along with the last of the workers when something hit him in the spine with the force of a battering ram and all went black.

.

* * *

**xXx**

Tom Apparated behind a bookstore in Wiltshire's town square. He walked swiftly out onto the street, looking about for this 'factory', but his mind was miles away, back in a posh bedroom with Harry — Harry's voice, Harry's eyes, Harry's full-bodied laugh. Harry's Dark Mark.

Once upon a time, Tom had sat on a couch under the Carcerem's gleaming emblem and imagined that very sight. Harry by his side, bound to him, but even then, Tom had known it was a fantasy. Yes, the picture had sent shivers down his back, but he'd never intended to brand Harry. Not _really_. He had, in all actuality, already done so with the scar on his forehead. Another would be tasteless. Unnecessary. Even though it was erotic.

But Tom didn't feel aroused. The sight of the Dark Mark, blacker than a moonless night, had done the opposite, stirring a terror inside him that still left him shaken. The Harry who'd slipped up against his body, whose tongue had licked teasingly against his bottom lip, was not the Harry he knew and not knowing Harry — _any_ Harry — sent him reeling.

_Some marriage proposal_, Tom thought bitterly. If he ever found that damn bird, he'd make sure it never resurrected again. He just had to find Harry — _his_ Harry — and get them back home. The problem was where to start?

A factory wouldn't be in the quiet town square. It would be tucked away on the outskirts. He turned on the spot, eyes sweeping over coffee shops and a magical menagerie.

Tom did a double take, turning back to the pet shop. A large poster on the front window proclaimed a sale on top hat-changing rabbits, twenty galleons each. What was such a shop doing in Wiltshire? Wiltshire was Muggle.

His eyes darted over the street: a store with a sign for walk-in broom repair; a plant shop whose front was nearly taken over by shivering ivy; a woman sat under an outdoor umbrella, levitating sugar cubes into her teacup. If there were any Muggles in Wiltshire, they were not visible to Tom. What had happened here? Had he actually succeeded? Had he claimed victory of England, booting out Muggles and settling witches and wizards in their place? Had Harry helped him?

Stunned and not entirely sure of the answer he wanted, Tom's eyes widened as a woman stepped out of a millinery — a woman who was dead in his world.

Bellatrix.

She spotted him the moment he spotted her. Her dark, hooded eyes alighted with delight. She crossed the street in a flash.

"Lord General!" she cried, stepping up before him and bowing. "Have you finished your inspection already? Has my sister won your approval?"

Lord General? Tom had never been called _Lord General_. She looked far healthier than he ever recalled her being. Her smile was vivacious, her skin vibrant, her hair luscious. He saw no trace of Azkaban.

"No," Tom replied, thinking quickly. "I have not yet met with her."

"Then let me escort you. I need to speak with Narcissa anyway."

Hoping that this meeting with Narcissa was what Harry had been referring to, Tom walked with Bella. The pedestrians shuffled quickly out of their path, bowing as they passed. Tom noticed that they kept their eyes downcast.

"I heard about the Delacours," said Bella.

The name ringed a bell and the face of a very beautiful young woman with silver blond hair appeared in his mind: Fleur Delacour, but she had recently joined the Weasley family, marrying their eldest. Bill, Tom was fairly confident. Harry had introduced them to him at Christmas.

"Oh?" said Tom.

Bella smirked, cutting her eyes to him and there it was — the violence he knew so well.

"He keeps surprising me, not that I should be surprised after the Weasleys. I admit that I didn't think a Potter would ever amount to anything, but our Harry is a vicious little thing. I wish I'd been there to see it."

Though the sun was quite warm, Tom felt himself grow cold.

"Yes," he agreed. "He is always a surprise."

Bella laughed.

"I am confident you will be pleased with the factory, sir," she said as they turned onto another street. "Narcissa runs it with an iron fist. I understand the concerns, of course. These uprisings must be stopped. The Mudbloods are growing too comfortable. I do wonder, sir, and forgive me if I speak too boldly, but I wonder whether allowing them wands is a mistake."

In Tom's silence, Bella grew nervous. Swiftly, she added, "Not that I do not see the merits, but with the revolts in factories two and eleven, are we gifting the Mudbloods too much ease? Would it not be better suited if, perhaps, we reduced their allotted wages to five knuts a week?"

Five knuts? You could hardly buy a loaf of bread with five knuts.

"We shall see," said Tom coolly, striding alongside her, finding himself both intrigued by the acts his counterpart had implemented to keep the population in line and trepidation should Harry find out. Salazar, if Harry found out he would want to do something about it. The last thing Tom needed was for Harry to dive headfirst into another war against _himself_. When one was wooing Harry Potter into matrimony, bloodshed was not the way to do it. But quite suddenly, Tom's thoughts were cut off as a wailing charm erupted into life, echoing through the streets. The shoppers on the street flinched.

"The factory!" Bella cried.

She was off, racing down the road with Tom right behind her. They turned a corner and Tom found himself in the midst of a crowd. People dressed in the same pale blue uniform ran in every direction, flooding down the steps of a large, granite building.

"STUPEFY!" Bella shrieked, pointing her wand at the fleeing crowd. "STUPEFY! STUPEFY!"

A terrified, sandy-haired boy fired off a stunner of his own at Bella. She blocked it easily and snarled, "You dare attack me, you disgusting Mudblood! Cruc—"

But a sizzling hot wave of magic that made Tom's hair ruffle descended down with the sharpness of a blade. Everyone on the street dove for cover as the barrier, seconds later, sliced into the pavement. Tom rolled onto his back and looked up. A shield, winking gold in the sunlight, encased the building and half the street. Beside him, Bella and another wizard clambered to their feet along with a girl with bushy, brown hair. _Granger._ She shot them all a petrified look and then bolted behind some trash bins.

"After her!" Bella shouted at the wizard. The wizard — tall, blond and muscular — was another face Tom recognized: Bax Cooper, a Death Eater he'd recruited after his resurrection. His heavy footfalls pounded the concrete as he gave chase to Granger, Bella right behind him.

Tom rose to his feet. Inside the glittering shield the blue dressed Muggle-borns were being corralled back inside the building, their wands removed, ropes securing their hands. Surreptitiously, he tested the shield's defenses and grimaced. There was no getting through that. It was Ministry issued. Tom made his choice in a split second. He darted down the side street after Bella.

He came upon them in the depths of an alley. Granger was putting up a very good fight.

"_Alarte ascendare!_"

Tom quickly sidestepped out of the way as Cooper was lifted right off his feet and flung back down the dim alleyway. She turned her wand on Bella, but Bella was quicker.

"Expelliarmus!"

Granger's wand flew from her hand. Gulping, she stumbled back as Bella advanced. Cooper slowly lumbered to his feet.

"You vile, pathetic waste of magic," Bella seethed. "We give you work. We give you shelter. We give you wands —"

"That you take away!" Granger shouted. "We're nothing more than slaves to you!"

"And slaves do not talk back to their masters!" Bella shrieked. "_Crucio!_"

Granger collapsed onto the ground, screaming.

"We allow you to live and _this_ is how you repay us?" Bella hissed, her eyes livid, her teeth grinding. "A dog would know better."

"_Stupefy!_"

Tom's spell hit Bella square in the back. She landed atop Granger. With a cry of alarm, Granger shoved her off. Tom spun on the spot and shot another stunner in Cooper's dumbfounded face. He fell like a tree.

Silence descended over the alley. Granger scrambled backward until her back hit a grimy wall, trembling from head to foot, mouth agape, her skin so pale she could have been a ghost.

"You — y-you —"

"I am not going to hurt you."

"_Please don't —_"

"I'm looking for Harry," Tom continued, speaking slowly and clearly. "Have you seen Harry?"

It would have been comical in any other situation: Granger's terror vanished in the blink of an eye, replaced with a wild joy.

"You're with the Order!" she said in a strangled cry of relief. She clutched her chest, looking close to fainting. "_Thank God._"

"Order?"

"The other one — the one in the factory — You're with the Order. I knew it! I _knew_ it!"

"What are you talking about?" Tom demanded. "Did you see Harry?"

Granger staggered to her feet. She grabbed the front of his robes. She looked ill, her skin gray, her frame far too thin. "I wish to join the Order."

Tom removed her hands from his robes.

"Hermione, I'm not from the Order. I'm not a rebel in disguise."

"No," said Granger, and she began to shake worse than ever. "No. The revolts. The Order. You're in disguise. You broke us out."

"No, I didn't. My name is Tom Riddle and I am from another world. Harry was transported with me, but I've lost him. Have you seen him?"

Granger's eyes darted from him to Bella, still unconscious on the ground, and back again.

"You're —"

"Yes," said Tom.

"You're — _him_?"

"I used to be," Tom said gently. "But not anymore. From where I come from, you and I are friends."

Granger's voice hit a new octave. "_Friends?_"

"Yes," said Tom, holding her firmly, "and I need your help."


	5. Chapter 4

_Fuck._

Harry felt like he'd been hit by a car. He blinked, everything fading in and out of focus. A tall, dark-haired figure loomed before him.

"Tom!" Relief flooded him, making the pain in his spine momentarily vanish. "Thank god!"

Harry tried to stand but couldn't. Confused, he looked down. His wrists and ankles were tied to a chair. Tom stood opposite him, leaning against a mahogany paneled wall, arms crossed loosely, but Harry recognized the fury that crackled beneath his skin. He wore an expression Harry had not seen in a very long time: the hunter sizing up his next kill.

"Tom?" Harry said, nervous.

"Do you honestly think you can fool me?" Tom said coldly. "Dumbledore must be desperate."

"What?" Harry croaked.

On Harry's right, behind an enormous ebony desk, were Draco and his mother. Mrs. Malfoy watched Harry with an upturned nose. There was no warmth from Draco now. His scowl of contempt was far closer to the one Harry was used to. They weren't in Draco's office, but one far larger and grander. If Umbridge was in the room, she stood beyond Harry's vision.

"Your attack was ill-conceived and poorly executed. It makes me doubt that the Order was behind it. Then again, maybe the old man's finally gone senile. Either way" — Tom's eyes hardened, twin bits of steel — "you're a dead man. How swiftly the ax falls is entirely up to you. Who sold you Polyjuice Potion?"

Harry's mind raced. Were the Harry and Tom of this universe in a relationship? Were they even friendly? If he managed to convince Tom of the truth — that he was from another world — would this Tom help him?

Harry was silent for too long. Tom pushed off from the wall, strode to him, grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head back.

"_Who sold you Polyjuice Potion?_"

"No one," Harry gasped.

Tom pulled his head back further. "I will allow you three lies before I slice your throat."

"I'm not lying!"

"I know for a fact that you are not Harry Potter. Dark Marks don't transfer under Polyjuice, you idiot."

What was the way out of this? What could he possibly say?

"_Who_" — Tom's nails bit into Harry's scalp — "_sold you Polyjuice?_"

A door opened and closed.

"Lord General." Umbridge's voice was strained. "I've just tested the imposter's wand."

"And?" Tom snapped. "Who does it belong to?"

Umbridge's voice dropped even lower. It shook slightly. "It's — it's _his_, sir."

Silence hung heavy in the room. Harry couldn't see anyone's faces, his only view the ceiling, and then Tom yanked his hair so viciously that Harry cried out, the chair's legs actually lifting off the floor.

"_How did you get this wand?_"

"It's — mine," Harry gritted, barely able to breathe, hoping his neck wouldn't snap.

"Lord General, if the Order of the Phoenix has Harry —" Umbridge began.

Tom released him and Harry gasped for breath, but then he was screaming, every inch of his body on fire, every nerve ending pierced with flaming hot knives. It was unending. Agony beyond agony.

And then it was over. Harry stared through misted eyes. Tom was nothing more than a double blur.

"Where is Harry Potter?" he demanded softly. "How did you get his wand? Tell me. Now."

"I — am — Harry _—_"

The spell hit him again. He had no idea how long it lasted, but when it finally stopped, he tasted blood. He'd bit his tongue. Tom's wand dug into his throat.

"You are _not_ Harry Po—" Tom stopped abruptly. His fingers roughly pushed Harry's fringe back. Harry didn't understand the look of confusion on Tom's face. He almost looked … frightened.

"What is it, sir?" Mrs. Malfoy asked, noticing the swift change in Tom's countenance.

Tom released him and took a swift step back.

"Find Harry," he ordered.

At once, Umbridge, Draco and Mrs. Malfoy hurried from the office. In their absence, Tom studied him.

Harry tried again.

"I _am_ Harry. I'm not lying. You know I'm not. You can tell. You can always tell. I'm from another world."

In Tom's muteness Harry continued in a rush, "We were on holiday. Fawkes showed up — he burst into flames. Somehow he sent me here. I'm not an impostor. You were raised in a London orphanage," he rattled, desperate for Tom to believe him. "The matron's name was Mrs. Cole. You studied possession from a sorceress in the Khangai Mountains after you left Borgin and Burkes. She made you live with the Muggle monks next door. The gramophone was playing Mozart when you murdered your fath —"

Harry cut off as Tom pointed his wand at his chest, staring at Harry as if he was the devil incarnate.

"Tom," Harry whispered, shaking uncontrollably. "You trust me. How would I know those things if you didn't? Believe me. I just want to go home. Please. Please, believe me."

But he didn't. Harry could tell that he didn't. He braced himself for what was sure to come, but instead of the thousand white-hot knives of the Cruciatus Curse, the room lit with the brilliant red of Stupefy.

.

* * *

**xXx**

Harry stepped out from the Three Broomsticks' fireplace and dusted ash from his robes. Being the end of July, Hogwarts was empty of students, leaving Hogsmeade quieter than most of the year, but the pub was still occupied. A pair of hags played gobstones and a cluster of wizened wizards argued at the bar over an article in the Daily Prophet. One of the wizards looked up at the sound of the floo sparking into life, caught Harry's eye and immediately lowered his gaze, shoulders hunching.

"Harry Potter, sir," Madam Rosmerta greeted. Her glittering turquoise heels clattered from around the bar. Though cheerful, Harry noticed the fine tremors around her fixed smile. She fooled no one. He was as welcome in her pub as a three-headed-dog. "The usual?"

"No, thank you," said Harry. A blind person would think the pub was a church for how silent and still the diners had become. "Maybe later." But he wouldn't. Harry detested being in public, experiencing a near strangling panic whenever he was forced to. Even now, red crept into the edges of his vision. Like sap oozing from a tree, blood seeped down the pub's walls, dripped over the bar and splattered onto the floor. Rosmerta did not notice that her shoes were soaking up the blood like sponges.

"Sir?" Rosmerta asked, concerned. "Are you sure you wouldn't like to sit down? You're very pale."

_It's not real. __**It's not real.**_

"I'm fine," Harry replied, brandishing a smile that was as fake as the one she'd given him.

Before she could say another word, he exited, the door swinging shut behind him. On the street, he took a moment to steady himself. He waited until his vision cleared and his nerves calmed before turning up the street and taking the long trek up to the castle gates.

He could have chosen to emerge out of the Headmaster's fireplace, but Harry preferred the walk. Though it meant the risk of running into villagers, it also meant he would not come across the portraits that circled the Headmaster's office. The Hogsmeade villagers' tension was one thing. The silent, heavy stares of the school's former headmasters and headmistresses were something else entirely.

Though on holiday, the castle still remained in use. The new recruits trained on the grounds, the Quidditch pitch transformed into an obstacle course of epic proportions. Harry made his way around the Whomping Willow, its thick branches creaking ominously as it flexed its limbs, past the Greenhouses with their doors flung wide on such a warm day, and finally he walked across the sloping lawn toward a large purple tent, erected on the edge of the pitch. Harry stepped under the pavilion, its canvas rippling in a sudden wind. A fine rug covered the grass and buckets of chilled pumpkin juice sat on a long table next to a buffet spread of food. Amycus and Alecto Carrow both lounged on poufs, watching the trainees sweat in the sun.

"Harry!" Alecto greeted in her grating voice. "Come to give the troops a run for their money?"

Harry flashed a grin. "Not today."

"Poo," she pouted.

"I'm looking for Master Snape," Harry explained.

Amycus pointed a stubby thumb outside the tent, his other hand digging inside a colorful box of crystallized pineapple. Harry nodded his thanks and walked onto the pitch. The trainees were Hogwarts' top graduates. The Dark Lord only took the best of the best and seventh years were known for being competitive to lethal extremes to receive an invite into the program. Snape stood on the edge of the pitch, his hands clasped behind his back, his black robes billowing in the wind. From a very young age, Harry had thought of him as a bat, but Harry wasn't a child anymore.

"Master Snape," Harry greeted, stepping up beside him.

Snape didn't turn to acknowledge him.

"Potter," he replied shortly.

"How are the recruits?"

"Dreadful."

"You always think everyone's dreadful."

Snape cut his eyes him, as if to say, _Because everyone is._

"What can I do for you, Potter?" he said instead.

Harry watched a witch disarm her far larger opponent, and then, for no apparent reason other than because she wanted to, send him flying ten feet.

"I need your help."

"Look alive, Patterson!" Snape bellowed as the eighteen year old climbed to his feet and retrieved his fallen wand. "Help with what?"

Harry took a step closer. With such chaos on the pitch, the risk of being overheard was slim, but Harry barely moved his lips as he murmured, "Euphoria."

Snape's black eyes darted to him. His thin lips pressed into an even thinner line and then he barked, "Alecto! Out here!"

From within the shaded pavilion, Alecto's curses reached them as she struggled to get off her squishy pouf.

"My office?" Snape offered.

"Thank you," said Harry.

They did not trade a single syllable on the trek down to the dungeons, the air so chilled Harry knew his glasses would fog the instant he returned back onto the grounds.

"What seems to be the problem?" Snape asked, the moment they entered his office. Everyone knew he preferred to teach the Dark Arts, but for reasons that Harry still did not understand, the Dark Lord had ordered him be the Potions Master.

"I'm having adverse reactions," Harry told him. His eyes roamed over strange, pickled creatures suspended in jars. Dust-covered books and the smell of stain remover tickled his nose. Neville had often complained about the smells. _Five washings and it still won't come out._

Snape sat behind his desk. "What sort of reactions?"

"I'm seeing things," said Harry, mentally shoving Neville into the box where he belonged. "It's becoming annoying."

Snape's frown deepened. "What sort of things?"

"Things," said Harry, impatient. "I want them to stop."

"Euphoria does not cause hallucinations, Potter. If it's causing them, the potion is not behaving properly with your system. Stop taking it."

Harry glared. "I don't see why I have to stop taking it. The recipe just needs adjusting."

Snape rubbed the side of his temple. "When did they begin? The hallucinations?"

"January."

Something flickered behind Snape's eyes and Harry wondered if he was putting two and two together.

"Initially, they didn't happen very often," Harry explained, turning his back to Snape and pretending to study a jar of preserved billywigs.

"Why do you believe it is Euphoria that is causing them?" Snape asked.

Harry took a step to the left, now reading the expiration date on a bottle of armadillo bile. "I just do."

Snape breathed heavily through his nose, his patience withering.

"_Potter._"

"I'm taking more than I should," Harry snapped. "That's why I know."

"How many?"

Harry was silent for a beat.

"Three. A day."

Snape straightened in his chair. "A _day_? Potter, that level of concentration is exceedingly toxic!"

"I know," said Harry, nettled.

"Euphoria is meant to be taken once a week — if that."

"I know."

"They will kill you."

"I _know_," Harry barked. He swallowed, pushing down his anger. "It's why I'm here. I'm not skilled enough to alter the recipe. I need you to do it."

"You need to stop taking them."

Harry's jaw clenched. "Will you help me or not?"

He had come to Snape because Snape was the only person who had ever been there. He cursed Harry and threatened Harry and hated Harry, but he was always — _always_ — there, healing the cuts and bruises and thistle wasp stings.

"I will not help you kill yourself," said Snape. "Take my advice and pour every bottle down the drain."

The copper taste of blood was in Harry's mouth. Crimson flared vivid across his vision. Red, red — always so red.

Harry spun on his heel and stormed from the office before he lost all self-control and shot a curse at Snape.

Cuts. Bruises. Thistle wasp stings. Childhood sentimentality had brought him here. It would not do so again.

.

* * *

**xXx**

Granger did not believe him, but a narrow alleyway and two cold-blooded killers slowly stirring back to life were in Tom's favor.

"I don't — I don't understand."

"A phoenix transported Harry and I into this world," Tom swiftly explained. "I know it doesn't make sense. I know you have no reason to believe me or trust me, _but why would I help you otherwise_? If I am the Tom Riddle of this world, why would I stop them?"

Granger's eyes shot to Bella in time to see her manicured fingers twitch. Tom's stunner was powerful, but so was Bella.

"I need to find Harry before anyone else does," Tom continued in a rush.

"I thought he was an Order member," Granger whispered. "When I saw him running away from the guards … we all thought …"

Tom spun around, looking back toward the factory.

"It's sealed," said Granger. "There's no way of getting inside it. I — I'm sorry."

Anger and fear burned inside him. He spun back to Granger and she jerked backward, frightened by his expression.

"Get me in there."

"I can't!"

"You _came_ from there!"

"I'm not going back!" Granger shouted and her voice made Bella stir even more. "I'm not going back," she whispered, fierce, and though she did not hold a wand, Tom knew she would fight him with nails and teeth. "I'm sorry. I am, but I'm _never_ going back."

They held each other's gazes and then Tom brandished his wand, making her flinch.

"_Accio._"

Granger's wand zoomed from beneath a crumpled bag of crisps. He passed it to her. Startled, she took it.

"Go," said Tom, shortly. "Before they wake up."

For a witch who'd wanted nothing more than to flee, Granger was strangely immobile.

"_Go_," Tom snarled.

"You're — you're _really_ not a rebel?"

"I would rather cut off my hand than join Dumbledore's motley crew so please _stop_ insulting me."

Granger remained in place, fingering her wand, indecisive.

"You can't get in the factory," she repeated.

"Of that I am very well aware," he replied. "Tell me something I don't know."

Again, Granger hesitated. She bit her lip and then she said, speaking fast, "There's a man. Rumor is he can get in touch with Dumbledore and Dumbledore —"

"Dumbledore's alive?" Tom said sharply.

All this time with discussions of the Order and rebels, Tom had not considered the possibility that Dumbledore _lived_.

"We like to think so," said Granger in a quiet voice. "I won't lie. Potter's —"

"Harry," Tom ground out. "His name is _Harry_." What in the world had happened to Granger? She spoke Harry's name as if she did not know him. As if he was a demon.

"Harry," she conceded quieter still. "He's probably dead, but if he isn't Dumbledore's your best shot at getting him back and honestly, what other option do you have?"

Options? Tom's mind was a whirlwind of _options_. It was an option to stride right up to the factory's barrier and demand an audience with his counterpart and what would happen then? If the roles were reversed what would Tom do if he found his doppelgänger lost in _his_ world? Would he assist him? Believe him? Kill him? They were both miraculously in romantic relations with Harry. Surely that boded well in Tom's favor, but … the Dark Mark on Harry's arm … Granger cast aside and speaking Harry's name with coldness … with fear. None of this was right. Harry wouldn't have allowed this. What had the Tom Riddle of this world said — what had he done — to convince Harry to join him and abandon his friends? Abandon everything he stood for?

Blackmail? Potions? Memory alteration? No, Tom couldn't trust the person who bore his face. He couldn't trust someone who might have forced Harry to turn away those he loved. Salazar, was his counterpart _raping_ Harry?

"Why do you need me to help you get to this man?" Tom asked, hating everything about this world, right down to the rat squeaking inside a discarded old boot.

"Because I can't Apparate," said Granger.

"You can't what?" said Tom, momentarily distracted by this unexpected admission. Granger was excellent at the skill.

"They don't teach Muggle-borns how," Granger stated. Her back was rigid, but her cheeks were flushed. "Do they in your world?" she asked coldly.

"Yes," said Tom.

Tom's answer shook Granger. Floored, her mouth fell open. Tom ignored her, pacing up and down the alley, making up his mind. If Dumbledore _was_ alive … there was no one who had more tricks up his sleeve than that old Muggle-lover. But to leave the one place he was confident Harry was in …

Tom ground his teeth so hard they hurt.

"_Hold on_," he whispered.

He strode back to Granger and she flinched again, holding her wand tighter, but she did not attack him.

"You're wrong," he stated and her brown eyes widened. "Harry isn't dead. I would know."

He would know like his heart being ripped from his chest. He would know like his very soul being shredded into a thousand pieces. He squeezed her arm in a far stronger grip than necessary.

"Tell me where."

.

* * *

.

They appeared outside a tea shop called Madam Puddifoot's. Granger stumbled from him, retching. Before taking off, Tom had swiftly transfigured himself, changing his hair to blond with a thin mustache to match. His face caused problems in this world. He'd Obliviated Bella's and Cooper's minds, but a skilled wizard would break through it. _He_ would break through it and then … what would Tom's double do then? Already, he feared he'd chosen wrong. He should have gone to the factory. What did it matter if he ended up fighting himself? What did it matter if everyone within a mile's radius were harmed or killed in the process? Harry was in there. _Harry was in there_.

Tom took a deep breath and regretted it as Granger's vomit hit his sinuses.

"Where is this man?" Tom demanded.

Wiping her mouth on the sleeve of her pale blue coat, Granger hurried down the street. "Down here," she said. "He's down here."

Tom followed her through Hogsmeade. The village was quiet, lacking the usual bustling activity of rambunctious students, but Granger still chose the side streets and back alleys. She kept her head down and walked so quickly she borderline sprinted. They turned onto a particularly smelly and narrow street. She stepped up to a warped door, its face discolored with mold and mud, tapped it with her wand and whispered, "Arapawa."

They waited for less than five seconds. The door flung open and a tall man with a scruffy beard and long, gray hair stood on the stoop. His livid scowl swept over them, then up and down the silent street. With an irritable jerk of his head, he beckoned them inside.

"Are you Aberforth?" Granger asked. "Justin told me —"

The man jabbed a dirty-nailed finger in her face and hissed, "_Shut it or you're out!_"

Granger snapped her mouth shut.

Aberforth? Tom stepped forward, his heart quickening. "You're Albus Dumbledore's brother." He'd personally never seen the man, but he knew he existed. Their eyes were the same.

"What's it to you?" Aberforth snarled. "In here," he barked, showing them into a small nook of a kitchen. He rummaged in a drawer of silverware. "You were never here. You never spoke to me. You don't know my name." He turned and held a short, broad knife. The blade was not made of iron ore, but what seemed to be ice. "Understand?"

Granger took a great shuddering breath. "I understand."

"You're gonna want to bite onto this," he said, passing her a grimy leather strap.

Granger sat at the tiny table. Face set, she put the strap between her teeth and shoved her right fist across the table. On the back of her hand were two blocky letters in black ink that Tom had not noticed: MB.

"What are you—"

But Tom's question was cut off by Granger's muffled shriek. Aberforth gripped her wrist in one hand and pressed the flat of the blade against the tattoo. Smoke sizzled into the air. Granger jerked and shook, but Aberforth's hold was too strong for her to pull free. A second later, the act was done. He stepped back and Granger, sobbing and shaking, clutched her hand. The letters had been burnt off. He passed her a dirty bottle and a moderately clean bandage.

"Put this on four times a day — _four times_," he ordered.

Unable to speak, tears streaming down her face, Granger nodded. She tried to remove the stopper with one hand and Aberforth, taking pity on her, did it for her. He then turned to Tom, holding out the leather strap.

"I'm not Muggle-born," said Tom, connecting the dots. "I take it that tattoo makes it difficult for you to flee?" he asked Granger.

She nodded, wincing as she dabbed her wound with the ointment.

"What rock did you climb out from under if you don't know that?" Aberforth asked with derision.

"Your brother," Tom said coldly. "I must speak with him."

Fury deepened the lines of Aberforth's face. "Who d'you people think I am? A telephone booth?"

"Can't you — can't you get in — contact with him?" Granger asked. She was growing paler by the second. "Justin said —"

"_Shut it!_" Aberforth snarled again. "You Muggle-borns better keep your mouths _shut_ or else I'm gonna get found out and then where will you idiots be, eh? _Eh?_"

Tom stepped forward, his fist clenched to keep himself from drawing his wand.

"I am not making a request."

"Oh, you ain't?" said Aberforth in mocking surprise. "I still don't give a shit!" He turned back to Granger, dug an old teabag out from his pocket and slammed it on the kitchen table. "It's the only Portkey I've got, so make good use of it. A woman named Arabella Fig will be waiting. Take this fool with you before I —"

"I'm not going anywhere until I've spoken with your brother," Tom stated.

"Who the fuck do you think you are, barging into my home and —" Aberforth stopped speaking abruptly. Tom's wand was inches from his thick, bulbous nose.

At the kitchen table, Granger watched wide-eyed, clutching her hand and looking close to vomiting again.

"Get Dumbledore here and I'll be out of your hair," Tom whispered.

"We don't chitchat," said Aberforth, just as livid.

"But you're still in contact," said Tom, seeing the truth in Aberforth's furious glare. "Do as I say or I will burn this hovel to the ground with you in it."

"Empty threats," Aberforth spat.

Tom pointed his wand at the kitchen table. It burst into flames. Granger shouted and jumped to her feet; Aberforth let out a raged bellow.

"Fine!" he roared. "FINE!"

With a swish, the fire vanished. Tom could have returned the table to its former state, but he let it remain a pile of smoldering wood, a forewarning of what would befall if harm came to Harry.

_I'll burn you all. _

"Anything you want me to say in particular?" Aberforth seethed.

Tom did not lower his wand.

"Tell him Fawkes sent me."

.

.

.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

The Arapawa is one of the rarest goat breeds in the world. Also, I love Aberforth.


	6. Two Feathers

_The first time Tom spoke to Harry, the boy was a day shy of fifteen. _

From the very beginning, Tom never understood his older self's choice to allow his prophesied killers to not only live, but flourish. Arms crossed, one hip against the balcony's iron railing, he watched Longbottom and Potter practice their spellwork under Severus' strict tutelage. Even from this height, Tom could make out Severus' scowl. At the table behind him, Voldemort sat.

"What do you think?" Voldemort asked.

"You know exactly what I think," Tom retorted. "It does not matter which one the Seer spoke of. Kill them both and be done with it."

Voldemort lifted a single hairless eyebrow like an older sibling simpering, _Play along._

Moodily, Tom fished a fig from the fruit bowl set between them. "It's obvious."

"I agree."

"Then finish him," Tom reiterated, rolling the fig between his fingers and tearing off the stem. He flicked it over the balcony like a cigarette stub. Sometimes he missed smoking, a habit he'd taken up at thirteen and one he'd dispensed with the moment the cravings grew too strong. Nothing controlled him.

"And of the power we know not?" Voldemort asked lightly.

Tom snorted, unmoved.

"There is no power hidden from us."

"You've grown cocky in your locket," said Voldemort. "There is always more magic to be discovered."

"You believe that scrawny specimen can wield magic we cannot?" Tom deadpanned.

"Prophecies do not lie."

"Then killing him is the solution." Tom chose another fig. "Letting him live is too great a risk."

"I have taken pains to intercede that risk."

Tom snorted again. Sometimes he looked upon Voldemort and saw a stranger. "Removing Potter from his parents? Raising him as your ward? Allegiances change. Ambitions grow. What if he chooses to overthrow us and we have paved his way, equipping him with every tool to do so?"

"He _is_ a charmer," Voldemort conceded, but teasingly.

Tom glowered, not remotely amused.

"Forgive me for saying so, but if I have grown cocky then you have grown complacent."

Voldemort's lip-less mouth retained its smile. He drained the last of his wine.

"You shall be taking over as his teacher."

Tom paused in pulling the fig in half.

"Is this why you released me?" he asked quietly. For three days, that very question had plagued him. Why, after so long, had his older self gifted him the ability to walk amongst the living … and for what price? "You want me to chaperone our murderer? That is not wise."

"Are you frightened of a child?"

Tom bristled.

"Hardly. Only that I do not agree with your methods in handling our situation and therefore have no intention of assisting it along. _You_ teach him, if you're so attached to the brat."

Voldemort's voice was pleasant, but his eyes turned frigid.

"I always believed I was above hard-headedness. You are proving me wrong."

Tom ground his jaw.

"If you take a moment to reevaluate the situation, you will find that you are the best for making sure he stays under our wing," Voldemort continued softly. "He is getting older. Already he shows promise to be more skilled than half our Death Eaters. He needs a close and constant eye. Do this right and he will be more valuable alive than dead. As you said, he is a danger that must not be left unchecked."

Tom grimaced and Voldemort laughed, high and clear. It carried down to the manicured lawn where the boys practiced, making them pause. They darted startled looks over their shoulders. Spine rigid, Tom glared out across the grounds like an irritable son who'd been called out. The analogy did nothing to soothe his aggravation. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Potter dodge Longbottom's curse, rolling on the grass and shooting his own counter jinx, forcing Longbottom to whip up a shield. The crack of Potter's spell hitting it sounded like a bone breaking.

Soon after, Severus escorted Potter and Longbottom back inside the Palace, Voldemort departed with a satisfied smirk and Tom remained on the balcony, tapping an impatient finger against the rail. It was not much longer after that that he heard the sounds of footsteps and Potter appeared.

"You called for me, Lord General?"

Babysitting children. Had he really been reduced to this?

Tom let his frustrations remain on his face for just another heartbeat before smoothing his features. He turned to face the boy.

_So you're the one destined to kill me. _

He took in Potter's narrow face, his thin frame, his outrageously messy hair — though that could have simply been caused by the drills Snape had set him to.

"No need for formalities, Harry," he said with a smile. "Tom will do. Have a seat."

Not expecting that, the boy was momentarily startled, but he covered up his reaction fast enough, hoisting up the soldier's façade easily enough. Quickly, he sat. Tom wondered how he would react if he told him the Dark Lord had been in that very chair just minutes before. With a wave of his wand, two bottles of wine and two identical goblets soared onto the table before Potter. The bottles tipped on their own, filling the glasses. Potter watched silently.

"What would you do if I told you one of those glasses is poisoned?" Tom asked, taking a seat opposite him.

Potter blinked. Even behind his glasses, his eyes were as vibrantly green as basilisk coils.

"I wouldn't drink," he replied.

"And if I told you to do so anyway?"

Potter frowned. He did not lower his gaze. "I suppose I'd ask why. Sir."

"Because I told you to," Tom said quietly. "When I tell you to drink, you shall drink. It is your choice to decide from which." He held Potter's gaze for just a breath longer before fishing about the fruit bowl for another fig. "Severus will be most disappointed if you choose wrongly," he added conversationally, leaning back in his chair. "He takes his potion training very seriously, doesn't he?"

Potter paled slightly, but his jaw tightened. His eyes hardened. He studied the glasses. One at a time, he lifted them to his nose. He held them up to the sun, watching the light play through the crystal. He even went so far as to drop a single speck of wine from each onto the white tablecloth, observing the spread and coloration. Finally, he picked up the glass on his right and pushed it to the center of the table. He held Tom's gaze, almost like a challenge.

"For you. Sir."

For a moment, Tom stared at the boy and then he threw back his head and laughed. It wasn't as high as Voldemort's bone-chilling mirth, but it was just as wild. He noticed that Potter's skin grew paler. Tom tossed him the fig and the boy caught it, once again startled out of his rigid training to look his age.

"Congratulations," Tom grinned. "You've survived another day."

.

.

.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Oh. My. God. I really shouldn't love Locket Tom as much as I do. *get a grip, girl*

It's so, so minor, but I wanted to point out the comparison between the line in this chapter, "When I tell you to drink, you shall drink", and the line Voldy gives Harry when Harry's a child, "My servants do exactly as I say, regardless of whether they would rather not", BECAUSE THEY'RE THE SAME PERSON! Gah! These little things just kill me. God bless you Jo and your characters! *swoons*


	7. Chapter 5

**Author's Note:**

In my plan this was meant to be two chapters, but the natural cut-off left me with a pretty short chapter and I didn't like giving you another short one right after the flashback, so here you go! Two for one!

.

.

.

* * *

"He knows things no one can possibly know."

Slowly, Harry came back to his senses. He was parched. Every inch of him ached as if he'd been beaten and stabbed and beaten again. Tom was speaking. Harry blinked and the man who wore Tom's face slowly came into focus across the room. He stood next to a low burning fireplace, speaking to someone Harry could not see. He'd been moved from Mrs. Malfoy's office. This room was dim, mainly illuminated by the firelight and a cluster of lamps. Careful not to draw the look-a-like's notice, Harry took stock of himself. Tight, glistening ropes encircled him, pinning his arms to his sides and securing his legs. He wiggled his feet and found himself hovering above the ground. He tested the ropes. They were of Tom's magic. If he could just loosen them a bit —

"Then we must learn more."

Harry froze, terror seizing him like a vice. That voice. He hadn't heard that high, cold voice since he was seventeen.

A tall, skeletally thin man stepped out of the shadows, his skin so unnaturally pale he seemed to glow. Livid red eyes, slits for nostrils, exuding an iciness that made Harry feel as if a dementor touched his heart — Lord Voldemort stood before him. His lip-less mouth formed a smile.

"Hello Harry."

No.

_No, no, no_ —

"I apologize for Tom's heavy-handedness." Voldemort crossed the room to him; the Horcrux, scowling, remained by the fireplace. "Patience is not one of his virtues, but I take it you already know that." Voldemort stepped right before him and Harry felt himself rise a half inch more so they were eye to eye.

"Incredible," Voldemort breathed. He took Harry in from head to foot. "Harry Potter. You are very far from home. You fell through a portal, I take it? Or a dimensional disturbance?"

Harry's heart thundered.

"That is very rare," Voldemort remarked. "The Unspeakables would be beside themselves if they got hold of you."

Harry swallowed and Voldemort's smile grew. His eyes traveled up to Harry's forehead, but unlike the Horcrux's reaction, fascination and hunger burned in his gaze. "Such a curious shape." His fingers brushed Harry's fringe out of the way; a fingertip traced the scar. "How did you come by it?"

Harry's heart skipped a beat.

"What?"

"It's obvious that our two worlds are different," said Voldemort. "No Dark Mark and now this puzzling scar. My Harry, you see," he added with an almost conspiratorial air — like a friend sharing a secret — "does not have one."

Harry reeled. No scar? But if the Harry of this world did not have a scar … The Prophecy. What had happened to the Prophecy?

"But what appears to remain the same," Voldemort continued, "is your bond with Tom. Not only are you familiar with him, you are quite close. Enough so that you believed he would help you." Two slender fingers gently grasped Harry's chin. "Talk to me," Voldemort said softly. "I will listen."

_Listen and then kill me_, Harry thought.

"Your scar," Voldemort pressed, his fingers squeezing slightly. "Who gave it to you?"

"No one. I was in a car crash."

The Horcrux rolled his eyes and Voldemort looked almost disappointed.

"Oh, Harry. This could have been painless."

And before Harry could brace himself, before he'd even taken another breath, Voldemort attacked. He dove inside Harry's mind, a storm of razors.

_Harry stared up into Hagrid's beaming, bearded face. 'No one ever lived after he decided ter kill 'em, no one except you … Somethin' about you stumped him, all right.'_

Voldemort tore through Harry's memories.

_A man with two faces … A sixteen year old boy screaming and dissolving as Harry plunged a fang deep inside a diary … A graveyard with an enormous cauldron shooting sparks into the night … A skeletally thin man rising from its depths … A golden design of a flower on the ceiling … A manor house on a tiny island …_

No.

_Voldemort, but young. Voldemort, but Tom. _

Without warning, Voldemort retreated and Harry struggled for breath. The glow of the fireplace stabbed his eyes, sunbursts of light exploding behind his irises — the effects of Legilimency.

The Horcrux's steps were quick. "What is it?" he demanded. "What did you see?"

Voldemort ignored him. Instead he gripped Harry by the chin tightly and Harry was nothing against the onslaught; he could have been fifteen again. Razors and knives. Knives and saws. He was shredded. Voldemort plunged deeper, searching …

_Swords glinting in the sunlight; an ocean breeze kicking up sand … _

Get out! Harry screamed. Get out!

_Tom flashing him a smile while showing him how to pry open an oyster. Tom saving him from Strangleweed and then nearly killing him afterward. Tom pushing him up against the sink in the Carcerem's dark kitchen … Tom's lips … Tom's tongue … Tom in his bed … 'I _have_ forgiven you.'_

Get out! Get out!

_Tom sitting across from him in the Ministry holding cells and then leaning casually against their shared cubicle wall. Ice skating on the pond behind the Burrow, Harry's feet slipping out from under him, making the pair of them crash in a laughing heap in front of everyone … Tom's hands … Tom's eyes … Sitting together in a bed of rose petals … 'Isn't it obvious?'_

"_**GET OUT!"**_

Harry crashed to the floor. Fleetingly, he realized the ropes had been severed along with the charm keeping him upright, but he could barely breathe much less leap to his feet. He could have been on the deck of a ship for how the floor swayed beneath him. He curled onto his side, clutching his throbbing head. He'd forgotten what it felt like to be cleaved in two.

"What is it?" the Horcrux said sharply again, angry. "What's wrong?"

"Where is Harry?" Voldemort hissed.

"Somewhere," said the Horcrux. "The Malfoys are looking for him."

"Somewhere?" said Voldemort quietly. "Your charge is _somewhere_?"

Even as Harry shook on the ground, tremors raking through him like aftershocks of electrocution, he sensed the danger. So, too, did the Horcrux.

"If you feel that it is important that I locate him, I will."

"Good," Voldemort breathed.

Through streaming eyes, Harry saw the Horcrux stride past him. The fireplace whooshed into life, the room momentarily bathed in green. Harry knew Voldemort watched him; he felt his glare like twin spotlights.

"Such a different world you come from."

Harry swallowed. His nails bit into the grains of the floorboards. Voldemort's robes slithered softly as he circled him.

"How did you do it?" Voldemort whispered.

Trembling with the effort, Harry managed to rise onto his forearms.

"Do what?" he spat.

Voldemort made no move to stop him as he sat up, resting his back against a wall. If his legs would just stop shaking—

"You can tell me everything now, or die a slow, agonizing death as I pull the truth from you," said Voldemort.

"What does it matter?" Harry fired back. "I'm not from here. I have nothing to do with you."

Voldemort shook his head, eyes burning. "I must know." His teeth were barred. "You stopped my reign. _How?_ How did you defeat me? How did you learn my secrets?"

"I didn't defeat you," Harry replied. "You defeated yourself."

"_Crucio!_"

A thousand knives. Skin peeling from muscle. Muscle stripping from bone. Hazily, Harry found himself upright again, hovering as he had before, Voldemort's face inches from his own.

"_Show me."_

_._

* * *

**xXx**

Granger was livid. His spell had destroyed her Portkey.

"Where am I supposed to go now?" she seethed, clutching her injured hand.

"I'm perfectly capable of making you another," said Tom. "Where do you want to go?"

Granger looked flabbergasted, the wind snatched from her sails.

"You can't go around making Portkeys!" Aberforth raged. He'd left them to send Dumbledore Tom's message and had just stepped back inside the kitchen. "You-Know-Who's sniffer dogs will be on us in seconds!"

"Sniffer dogs?" said Tom, a headache forming behind his eyes.

Aberforth stormed toward him. "Hodags, you fucking moron!"

"Hodags wouldn't sense a Portkey's creation," said Tom.

"They do when they're crossed with those Muggle bloodhounds. Where the fuck did you find this idiot?" he asked Granger.

"It is of no consequence," said Tom through gritted teeth. If Aberforth said another goddamn word — "Granger, I'll get you to where you need to be after I've found Harry."

"He as much of a moron as you?" asked Aberforth.

"Do you want me to kill you?" Tom snarled.

Aberforth rolled up his sleeves. "I'd take your punk ass right here, right now. Come on!"

"If a referee was all you needed, Aberforth, you know I'm always happy to oblige."

Granger gasped, Aberforth's lips pursed and Tom stiffened. Albus Dumbledore with his half-moon glasses and benign smile stood in the kitchen doorway.

"But I suspect," Dumbledore added as his eyes shifted from his brother to Tom, "that that was not the reason for your message."

"Jackass wants to see you," Aberfroth growled, jutting a thumb at Tom. "I've also got a Muggle-born in need of transit as _jackass_ destroyed my last Portkey."

"I see. Aberforth, you'll need to join Miss Granger" — Granger jerked at the sound of her name — "until the coast is clear to return. Are you packed?"

Grumbling darkly, Aberforth stomped from the kitchen.

"You know who I am?" said Granger, amazed.

"Of course," said Dumbledore. "You were the brightest of your year."

Tom was used to hearing this. Harry and Weasley often threw about similar remarks, but instead of flushing with embarrassed pride, a cloud seemed to settle over Granger's features.

"Sir, I want to join the Order."

"Are you quite sure? It is a very dangerous occupation."

"Yes," said Granger fiercely. "I want to help."

"Very well," said Dumbledore. "Ah, Aberforth! Ready?"

A battered, peeling suitcase in tow, Aberforth slouched toward them. Dumbledore pulled from his pocket a used candy wrapper, placed his wand tip to it and it glowed a vibrant blue.

"Tell Arabella the situation," he told them, handing the wrapper to Aberforth. "I'll be in touch soon."

Granger just managed to touch a corner of the colored paper before they vanished.

"I estimate ten seconds before the hodags are upon us," Dumbledore informed Tom, turning to him. "They patrol Hogsmeade, you see. I know of a safer location that will allow us to talk properly. I suspect that you have much to tell me, Tom."

Unlike Granger, Tom did not flinch at the sound of his name. He glared. Rueful, he removed his transfigurations. No matter how hard he tried, time and time again, Dumbledore always saw straight through him.

He narrowed his eyes. "You know I'm different. You know I'm not the Tom of this world."

"Of course," said Dumbledore, cheerful. The sounds of barking dogs reached Tom's ears. "I can state emphatically that I have never had the pleasure of _your_ company. Shall we be off?"

Dumbledore held out his hand. Tom hesitated for only a second before grasping his wrist. A breath later, salt wind hit Tom with the strength of a hurricane. He released his grip on Dumbledore and turned on the spot. He had set them down upon a stripped bare rock in the middle of the ocean. Waves crashed upon the craggy sides, spraying them both.

"So," said Dumbledore, as if they were picking up the threads of an interrupted conversation over tea, "Fawkes?"

Tom steeled himself.

"You know me. You recognized me immediately."

"Yes," Dumbledore agreed.

"And therefore you know that I would never come to you unless I was desperate."

Dumbledore's face was grave. "Very true."

"So there is so reason for me to lie to you. Correct?"

Dumbledore's beard whipped in the wind, his plum-colored robes twisting around his ankles. He clasped his hands and waited for Tom to continue. As clouds blocked out the sun, Tom told him everything.

.

* * *

**xXx**

Harry spat out a mouthful of blood. He was alive. How could he still be alive?

He blinked, wondering how many times he'd been knocked unconscious today. There was a number that was safe before brain damage set it, but it eluded him and Harry, numbly, agreed that it wasn't particularly helpful information anyway. Wincing, he tried to sit up and found his wrists bound tightly behind his back, but that was okay. It was better to lie still. The ground was solid beneath him, dirt cool against his hot cheek. He didn't think he'd be able to stand if he tried. For a moment he thought he was in the Forbidden Forest, but why would Voldemort dump him there? Maybe the man watched from around a tree, waiting for an Acromantula to eat him whole, but as Harry's throbbing brain slowly caught up with his senses, he knew this was not the Forbidden Forest. It was lusher, warmer, vibrant. Tropical. He peered upward at the deep green canopy, tree branches crisscrossing overhead, bedecked with moss and vines. The softened light helped his stinging eyes. It helped soothe his pounding head. Harry frowned, narrowing his eyes. The pale cream of a ceiling was just visible through the canopy. He was in a room, bewitched into a forest. Why would Voldemort put him here and not a dungeon?

It didn't matter. Harry had more pressing matters to contend with. Grimacing, he sat up and rested his back against a tree. He gasped at the contact, his back aching as badly as his skull.

It doesn't matter. _It doesn't matter._

Harry steadied his breathing. He shut his eyes, focusing upon the ropes cutting into his wrists. Tom had been teaching him wandless magic. It was a skill most wizards never mastered, both from the difficulty and the lack of efficiency. There was a reason wizards had invented wands. Wands condensed and enhanced magic. Channeled it. Controlled it. Even Tom struggled with wandless, stating emphatically to always — _always_ — use wands.

"Then why bother learn wandless?" Harry had grumbled after listening to Tom's lecture and not feeling remotely confident.

"Because you might find yourself without a wand. That's why."

In the cool and dark, surrounded by damp vegetation and the sounds of buzzing insects, Harry reached out to the magic binding his hands.

_What color is it?_ asked Tom.

Storm-cloud purple, same as yours. So dark it could be black.

_Good,_ Tom praised, his voice so clear inside Harry's head he could have been sitting right next to him. _Seeing the color makes it tangible. How does it feel against your skin?_

Cold. So cold it's hot. That doesn't make any sense.

_It is what it is. Don't get distracted by logic. Use your senses. Focus._

Harry grimaced, ignoring the stabbing pain behind his eyes, the throbbing pulses that spoke of far more than just a headache. _Don't think about that. _Focus. He saw the ropes in his mind's eye; he listened to their beats and swells. They were familiar. So very familiar. Like hooks teasing apart a knot, Harry slipped his own magic through the rope's threads. Slowly, achingly slowly, he felt them loosen.

_Focus, _Tom urged.

_Focussss._

Harry's eyes snapped open, the word turning into a hiss that kept going and going. The lower leaves of the shrub before him rustled and the white body of a ninazu slithered into view. Before living with Tom, Harry wouldn't have recognized the five foot long snake with its slender, alabaster scales and liquid sun-burst eyes, but when Tom had learned that Rolf had one in his trusted briefcase, Harry had heard nothing else for weeks.

Far smaller in stature than a basilisk or Runespoor, ninazus made up for their size in their venom, so potent a single drop could burn a hole in metal and its gleaming eyes were locked on him.

.

* * *

**xXx**

Up and down, Voldemort paced, his intestines twisting in a fashion that was foreign to him. Fear, he realized. Fear and vulnerability.

Coincidence did not exist. This boy … this other version of his prophesied killer had landed in his world for a reason. Voldemort's magic crackled beneath his skin. The memories pried from the boy's mind raced through his own. They were impossible. Outrageous. Inconceivable. For his counterpart to _fall in love_? For his reign to end because of the charms of a _teenager?_

The glass doors of a wine cabinet shattered, the bottles and decanters exploding like bombs. It was a good thing he'd locked the boy away in the Serpent House or he would have turned his wand on him there and then and murdered him in a blaze of green.

The Carcerem. He had not thought of that device in decades.

Legs a tangle, fingers interlaced, a messy-haired boy arching, breathlessly gasping, _Tom_, _**Tom**__._

Revolted, Voldemort pushed the memory of his counterpart and Potter away. He'd never been tempted to Obliviate himself until now. Allowing the Locket to enter relations with Harry was one thing, but _this_. This was different. This was unacceptable. This was _him_. The original. The creator and master. For Lord Voldemort to debase himself, to lower himself to the whims of another. To _love… _

Sex was a tool to control and manipulate, but what he'd seen in Potter's memories was nothing of the sort. The knowledge that in a different universe Lord Voldemort allowed himself to sink so low — _an Auror? A babysitter?_ Had he really seen himself buy a toddling child _ice cream_?

Voldemort's hands clenched, longing to wrap around a neck — any neck. It couldn't have just been the Carcerem's doing. Something else must have happened. What had Potter done? How had he hoodwinked the greatest wizard in the world? For twenty years — ever since he'd heard the Prophecy — Voldemort had implemented an unbeatable plan to fortify himself from destruction. He'd thought he'd been successful, but now …

For the first time Voldemort found himself uncertain. The choice to let the Locket entangle himself with Harry was suddenly full of risks that he had not seen until now. The Locket had become bold of late. Borderline mutinous. Was this Harry's doing? Was the Horcrux too falling under the spell of the green-eyed youth? Was this how self-destruction began? Beneath his very nose, was Harry gaining the upper hand?

Again, the memory of himself — so young, as young as the Locket — appeared. Taking Potter's face in his hands and kissing him like the boy was everything. Like he was magic itself.

…_AND HE SHALL HAVE POWER THE DARK LORD KNOWS NOT…_

Sybill Trelawney's words echoed in Voldemort, words that had stilled his hand when he'd gone to Lily Potter nineteen years ago. What power? What power did Lord Voldemort not know? What secret eluded the conqueror of wizarding Britain? He took Harry Potter and Neville Longbottom as infants. He raised them, looking, always looking for this power. He'd seen a wildness in Harry and so his choice had been clear, but though the boy was strong, though the boy was impressive, no other-worldly power presented itself.

Harry could not wield the Silence.

Had Voldemort made a mistake? Did the Prophecy not speak of the Harry Potter who bore his Dark Mark, but of another? Another from a different world? One with a lightning bolt scar? Did it speak instead of a boy who'd already brought a dark lord to his knees?

Broken glass crunched under Voldemort's steps. He'd give the boy a few hours to recuperate before prying open his mind again. It would do no good for Potter to die before he'd learned everything.

.

* * *

**xXx**

Iron-gray clouds swirled overhead; the wind turned blistering as rain drops fell. Dumbledore stood silently on the rock. A significant part of Tom did not miss the irony. Here he was, spilling every secret, every wrong-doing and every truth to the one person he'd sworn he never would. For practically Tom's entire life, he'd seen Dumbledore's penchant for forgiveness a folly. The Carcerem had changed that. _Harry_ had changed that. For both their sakes everything clung to the chance of an old man doing the impossible and giving Tom a second chance.

"Do you believe me?"

Dumbledore's face was unreadable, as always. No amount of Legilimency had ever been able to break through his shields.

"Yes," Dumbledore said at last and relief nearly made Tom lose his balance in the battering wind. "This world you have landed in is far different from the one you are used to. I shall go into the details later. For now, we must find Harry."

"The factory in Wiltshire," said Tom at once. "Granger saw him, but it's been placed under a protection that I can't break."

"Protections no one can break," Dumbledore added grimly. "Once those shields are in place, no one can enter or leave until they are removed."

"By that time Harry may be dead!"

"I do not believe they will kill Harry," Dumbledore disagreed.

Tom's heart beat faster. "You know where Harry is. Where—"

Dumbledore held up his hand, and Tom bristled. "It is a place that is not safe for either of us, but there is someone who can help." He pulled from his robe pocket a fiery red feather. With a twirl of his wand, the feather vanished in a puff of smoke.

"Come." Dumbledore strode to him, once more holding out his arm. "It will not be long before we have word."

"Where are we going?" Tom demanded.

"A safe house. It is the most secure place I can offer you and Harry, once he is returned to us. From there, we will work on a way to send you both back to your world." Apologetically, Dumbledore added, "I must request that you transfigure yourself once more."

With an irritable jerk of his wand, Tom acquiesced, donning the same blond hair and mustache he had before.

"Let us be off," said Dumbledore.

A second later, they appeared on a stretch of empty marsh.

"Safe house three resides on the Murk Fields," Dumbledore stated calmly and when Tom turned his attention back to the overgrown wetland it was to see a single, small cottage.

"You really do trust me," said Tom, unnerved.

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. He set off, heading toward the house; Tom hurried after him, his shoes sinking slightly in the soggy ground.

"Will this person be able to get Harry out from wherever he's being held?" Tom pressed. "Because if he can't —"

"He will," said Dumbledore. "He is immensely resourceful. Plucking prisoners is nothing new for him."

It was difficult not to feel insulted, but Tom reminded himself that he was not the Lord Voldemort of this world. After all, _he_ would not have prisoners vanishing under his nose, except … that elf, Dobby, had removed Harry and his friends from Malfoy Manor, completely bypassing Tom's enchantments. He quickened his pace.

"Are you using a house elf?" he asked.

Dumbledore looked amused. "He would be very insulted if he knew you called him that."

Tom grew impatient. "Then who —"

They were nearly at the house's front steps when the door burst open and a man emerged, rushing out to meet them. Tom stopped dead in his tracks.

James Potter.

Tom grabbed Dumbledore by the arm.

"Did you not listen to anything I told you?" he hissed. "Harry can't stay here. _I_ can't stay here. I _killed_ that man."

"There is nowhere else that is safer," said Dumbledore gravely.

"Don't play your twisted games with me, Dumbledore," Tom spat as James Potter grew closer. "I want a safe house that is _empty_."

"You asked for my help," Dumbledore replied. "Trust me, Tom."

Tom ground his teeth. This was horrible. This was worse. Worse than worse. This was Fate and Irony spitting all over him. He suddenly did not think his disguise was nearly strong enough and as James Potter, looking so very much like Harry, stepped before them, Tom wondered if there was a hint of recognition in his eyes.

"Dumbledore," said James. "Has something happened?"

"Yes. I have news. Is Lily available?"

James nodded. His gaze shifted back to Tom.

"You okay?" he asked, which made perfect sense, as Tom had paled severely at Dumbledore's words. He cut a furious glare at the old man. Harry's mother, too? Who else was alive in this fucking world?

.

* * *

**xXx**

Harry had always found parseltongue disturbing. The bone-chilling spitting and hissing made shivers run up and down his spine, but when Rolf begged Tom for help in mastering the language, Harry found himself changing his opinion, the soft, sibilant sounds issuing from Tom's mouth turning into something almost hypnotic.

The ninazu lifted its triangular head and flicked a blue tongue.

"Hello," Harry said in an overly bright, cheerful voice though sweat slid down between his shoulder blades.

The snake cocked its head and Harry concentrated hard on the string of hisses.

"You speak my language?" said the ninazu, sounding startled.

"Yes," Harry hissed back. "A little."

"The other one does not." The ninazu slithered closer. "You look like him but you don't smell right. Master does not like you," the snake added, almost as an afterthought.

"No," Harry agreed, feeling that lying to a ninazu was as dangerous as insulting a hippogriff. "He doesn't."

"Why?"

Harry blinked. That was a long story, most of which he didn't know half the words to. His head began to pound again.

"He's … angry with me."

The ninazu's head swayed from side to side.

"Did he tell you to" — Harry struggled for the right words; Kill? Maim? — "hurt me?"

"_Skusss." _Watch.

Voldemort had given him a jailer. Harry desperately brought back every lesson Tom had given him.

"I'm … lost," Harry told the snake. "I want … I want …" What was parseltongue for _home_? "Friend," Harry said instead. "I've lost my friend."

"The other boy?"

The pain in Harry's head and spine were becoming difficult to ignore. He screwed up his face, wondering if he hadn't heard the snake right. "Other boy?"

"Yes." The snake's forked tongue flicked inches from Harry's nose. "The boy with toads. Do you have toads?"

"No, but I can get you toads," said Harry, thinking fast.

It was difficult to read a snake's expression, but Harry had the feeling it was tempted.

"Master said—"

"It can be our secret."

The ninazu swayed with greater agitation.

"Let me go," said Harry, "and I'll bring you lots of toads."

"Fat toads?"

"_Sl pvist_," Harry replied. The fattest.

The ninazu released an exuberant hiss and darted to the right, vanishing behind a tree so fast it could have been on wheels.

"This way!"

"Hold on!" Harry yelled after it. He wouldn't be able to do anything if he couldn't get his hands free. Grimacing against the sick pulsations inside his skull, he closed his eyes and began the tortuously slow process all over again. Gently, he plucked at the threads of magic around his wrists, teasing them apart but they were so slippery they could have been made of oil. A bead of sweat ran down his face.

He heard the ninazu slither back to him. Or he hoped it was the ninazu.

"Why aren't you coming?" it asked, impatient.

"Just … a bit …"

_Yes!_

The spell dispersed and Harry's hands were free. He clambered to his feet but almost immediately lost his balance. He reached out and gripped the tree for support, the world spinning.

"You look ill," the ninazu observed.

"It's not my best day," Harry agreed.

"Toads will make you better!" and the snake disappeared again through the underbrush.

Not entirely confident he'd translated that correctly, Harry stumbled after it.

"Slow down," Harry whispered. Now that he was up and moving, the thought that perhaps the ninazu was not the only snake inside the jungle room hit Harry. He knew Voldemort. Hell, if he let Tom have his own snake house it would be filled to the rafters with Horned Serpents and … Harry paled. Basilisks. He broke into an unsteady run. The white tip of the ninazu's tail turned onto a path and Harry, hurrying after it, found himself before a large pair of double doors. Harry grabbed the handle —

Locked.

Harry let out a curse of frustration. Undoing knots was one thing, but breaking through locks — he'd never been able to do that.

"Problem?"

Harry looked down. Twined around his ankles, the ninazu looked up at him, its blue tongue tasting the air.

"Do you" — Harry grimaced, struggling for the words — "Exit. Another exit."

"Why?" it asked, puzzled.

"It's locked."

"Then open it," said the ninazu.

"I can't," said Harry, angry. To prove it, he grasped the handle and gave it a yank and his eyes landed upon the carvings in the honey oak. _Oh._

Two snakes were etched into the wood, their eyes inlaid with jewels. It was just like the sealed doors in the Chamber of Secrets.

The word slid on Harry's tongue. "_Open._"

The doors creaked on their hinges, swinging outward.

"Toads!" cried the ninazu like a child outside a candy shop and before Harry could take a step, the snake shot up his leg, slithering up his calf.

Harry froze as it moved up his body, coiling around his shoulders.

"Toads," it repeated, tongue tickling his ear.

Harry shivered. "Why don't you wait here and I'll bring them—"

The ninazu hissed sharply.

"Okay! Okay!"

Looking both ways, Harry slipped through the doors and flinched, shutting his eyes against the glare. The brightly lit corridor was triply enhanced by white marble floors and walls. His head pounded; his eyes watered. He feared he'd pass out.

"What is wrong?" asked the ninazu.

"I can't see," Harry hissed. How was he going to find a way out if he couldn't see? "The toads are outside. Can you help me? I need to find a way out without anyone seeing me."

"Secret?"

"Yes. Secret, yes! He's angry, remember."

"Left," said the ninazu in his ear.

Squinting, Harry did as the snake instructed. This must be what it was like to be in a desert with nothing but sun reflecting off miles and miles of white sand. His mind was full of nails and each step, each blinding prick of light, drove them deeper.

"_Stop!"_

Harry jerked at the ninazu's order. The snake shifted slightly on his shoulders.

"Someone is coming."

A second later, Harry heard quick footsteps.

"They are coming around the corner," the ninazu told him in a rush. "They smell —"

But Harry didn't know the word the ninazu used.

"I don't under—"

"_Strike_!"

Harry took that as the ninazu's word for tackle and so he jumped blindly. He collided with something very solid that cried out in alarm. Eyes squeezed shut, Harry grappled with the unknown person. They rolled on the ground. Harry heard the ninazu hissing and spitting; the stranger let out a strangled curse and the wind was knocked out of Harry as something very hard whacked him in the stomach. Reeling, Harry fell backward.

"Get that fucker away from me, boy!"

Eyes streaming, gripping his stomach, Harry peered at the person he'd jumped.

It wasn't a wizard. It was a goblin.

He was plastered up against a wall, brandishing a cane at the furious ninazu. Harry blinked his eyes, hard. He looked like…

"Goddammit, boy!" Mrunog Gudar raged. "I'm here to _help_!"

The goblin representative, the goblin who'd been kidnapped by the Tebo for spurring his fellow goblins into discussions of wand rights was being backed into a corner.

"Stop!" Harry hissed at the ninazu.

"Why?" it spat back at Harry.

Harry looked up at Mrunog's wrinkled, round face. "Why are you helping me?"

"Dumbledore sent me," he growled, still holding the ninazu back with his cane.

Harry was so thrilled, so amazed, that the pain in his body was forgotten. He scrambled to his feet and scooped up the ninazu.

"Dumbledore knows about me?"

"Of course he knows about you!" Mrunog barked. "Why would I be here if he didn't? You Order fools are getting more imbecilic by the day. Why you chose to impersonate _him_ for starters …"

The Order? Dumbledore? Harry couldn't believe it. Finally, things were going his way.

"Keep that devil away from me," said Mrunog, glaring at the ninazu. "Quick, boy!"

Mrunog's short strides strode down the stretch of corridor at a fast clip, Harry rushing after him.

"This way, this way!" Mrunog urged, opening a door and looking both ways.

Harry descended a set of steps, the light dimming and air cooling. Dust tickled his nose and as he followed Mrunog down the steps he spotted wine barrels. A cellar. They paused at the foot of the stairs. Harry heard the high-pitched squeaks of house-elves and smelt the delicious aroma of fresh baked bread.

Mrunog led him away from the kitchen, winding deeper into the depths of the cellar, moving past crates and crates of candlesticks. Wound around Harry's shoulders, the ninazu tasted the air curiously.

"Here." Mrunog came to a stop, standing before a grimy section of stone wall.

Harry, his stinging eyes calming in the gloom, looked around, expecting Dumbledore to appear from the shadows, but there was no one.

"Where's —"

"SHHH!" Glowering, Mrunog lifted a long-fingered hand and trailed a sharp, black nail down the stonework. A thin, golden line appeared. He continued to run his nail until the outline of a door burned into life.

"Go!" said Mrunog. "And don't be stupid enough to get caught again, you fucking bastard."

Harry wanted to know where Mrunog was sending him. "Is Dumbledore —"

"_Go!_" And showing more strength than Harry would have thought of the squat goblin, Mrunog shoved Harry hard in the back. On instinct, the ninazu tightened its coils around his throat and Harry fell through the stonewall and kept falling as if he'd jumped right off the edge of a cliff.

.

* * *

.

.

.

**Author's Note:**

We all know that very young wizards and witches will demonstrate accidental magic. We also know that Harry has used wandless magic in the books (Prisoner and Phoenix come to mind) when he was extremely upset. And we know that Tom at a very young age had already gained enough control of his magic to use it on purpose (ie wandless). But, the fact remains that in canon wands hold a bigger role of importance than using magic without them. I can imagine that you could learn to use magic entirely without a wand, as it's mentioned on Pottermore that some cultures do, but that's a skill you'd have to learn and I imagine it would be a very, very hard one. As fun as it is for Harry to suddenly be all powerful and doing all kinds of magic without a wand, it's never felt very realistic to me. I like him struggling with certain kinds of magic. It makes him relatable.

Also, I love the idea of Tom teaching Harry parseltongue. I have to admit that I was a bit bummed that Ron could speak it in book 7 (it was Harry's thing!), but so too can Dumbledore. It's a language, pure and simple, and all languages can be learned. I like to imagine that because it's seen as a Dark Wizard's language it's been stigmatized and shunned. I can see that there probably aren't very many help books on it and that the best way to learn it would be from someone fluent in it, which at this point, would just be Tom.


	8. Chapter 6

The cottage smelled of bee's wax and lemon. The floors were tidy and swept, not a cobweb in sight, even on the highest light fixtures and rafters. Tom kept his head down and avoided being drawn into direct conversation as he and Dumbledore entered the house and James Potter called for his wife. She appeared from a side room, sleeves rolled up past her elbows, hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, carrying a small cauldron. It was like stepping back in time. To Tom, the Potters had hardly aged a day since the night he'd murdered them.

Lily Potter's eyes — _Harry's eyes_ — swiftly traveled over Tom before focusing upon Dumbledore.

"Thank goodness you're here. I didn't know what to do. I just found him."

She held the cauldron out for Dumbledore.

"Ah! There you are!" Dumbledore cried in delight.

Tom grimaced. Inside the cauldron was a newborn phoenix in a bed of ashes. Dumbledore took the cauldron, thanking her.

"Lily, James, this is Tom. He's been separated from his companion and is in need of a place to stay. Would you be willing to open up your guest room?"

"Course," said James without hesitation.

"Thank you. I very much appreciate that."

From the depths of its cauldron, the phoenix turned its beady-black eyes upon Tom and chirped. At the end of his tether, he gritted to Dumbledore, "How much longer?"

"Soon," Dumbledore assured him before turning back to the Potters. "We have a situation. We may need some potions, preferably Dreamless Sleep."

Lily's eyes widened in surprise and then darkened with concern.

"I don't have much left."

"Get what you can spare," Dumbledore urged. "We will be in the kitchen."

Tom did not miss the worried expression that passed between the Potters, but Lily disappeared back into the room she'd come from.

Without another word, Dumbledore crossed to a door on the left and Tom and James followed into a kitchen. Chairs scraped against the rough, stone floor and they all sat at a rectangular table. Dumbledore conjured a small nest of fluff, scooped out the phoenix and placed him on the table top. The bird, barely covered in day-old fuzz, pecked at its nest. They only sat in awkward silence for a moment before Lily joined them, taking a seat beside her husband.

"Well?" James asked.

"Earlier today an extremely rare event occurred. So rare that it has only ever been hypothesized," said Dumbledore. "Fawkes traveled across the dimensional plane."

At the sound of his name, the phoenix, snuggled in its nest, chirped again.

James blinked.

Stunned, Lily asked, "How do you know?"

"Because he brought two individuals back with him," Dumbledore replied.

Connecting the dots, Lily and James turned their startled eyes upon Tom while Dumbledore continued, "Tom and Harry —"

"Harry?" James said sharply.

"Yes," said Dumbledore gently. "Fawkes flew from our world to theirs. They were separated upon their arrival here. Tom appeared in Riddle House, realized what had transpired and sought me out. I believe Fawkes brought them here for a reason."

Tom caught the insinuation, the same unspoken fear that had been circling in his own brain like a shark. Furious, he turned in his seat.

"We are _not_ fighting your war for you. _Harry_ is not fighting your war."

"And you are confident he would say the same?" Dumbledore inquired lightly. "From what you told me —"

The anger and terror of _still_ not having Harry by his side sent Tom over the edge. He was on his feet.

"He did what he had to do! He did it because I —" He cut off abruptly. Fists bunched, he whispered fiercely, "_Because I gave him no other choice."_

Dumbledore regarded him sadly. "There is always a choice, Tom."

"What is this?" asked Lily, her face ashen. "What are you talking about?"

"It is not my intention to force Harry or yourself into assisting us," said Dumbledore. "Our war is our own. Entirely." He turned back to Lily and James and his gaze softened even more. "The world in which Fawkes traveled to is one where the war is over. Harry did not join the Dark Lord, but fought against him. He did the impossible, saving not only Muggles and Wizarding kind, but the Dark Lord himself. Tom, if you are willing."

Their eyes were upon him. He felt strangely vulnerable as he removed his enchantments. The mustache that kept tickling his upper lip vanished. The blond hair returned to black.

"You!" James roared. His chair clattered as he jumped to his feet. He whipped out his wand, pointing it at Tom's heart. Lily sat frozen in her seat.

"James!" Dumbledore urged. "Tom is not our enemy. Please, calm down."

"Calm down?" James bellowed. "What the hell are you doing bringing _him_ here?"

"He is not who you think he is!" Dumbledore insisted. "I will explain everything —"

"HE DESTROYED MY SON!"

The phoenix suddenly clambered out of its nest and hopped on unsteady legs across the table. It settled itself before Tom, facing James. Uncomfortable, James hesitated and Dumbledore said quickly, "Yes, Tom was once He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. The same He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named we are acquainted with. He's confessed everything to me, his rise to power _and_ his salvation. As of a year ago, Tom works for the Ministry as an Auror, alongside Harry." He turned back to Tom, his twinkle returning. "I imagine you make a formidable pair."

James looked flabbergasted.

"I know it is a great deal to take in," Dumbledore admitted, "but I believe him and I think that if you listen, you will too."

"Then tell us," said Lily.

"Lily, you aren't seriously considering—"

"Yes, James, I _am,_" she snapped._ "_I can see how you might have missed it with all the shouting you've been doing, so let me remind you that Harry — _our son_ — is currently out there on his own and you have not asked _once_ where he is! I don't care who this man is! I don't care whether he was the Dark Lord or not! I want to know where my son is!"

Furious, Lily turned away from James and addressed Tom and Dumbledore.

"Do you know where he is?"

"A factory in Wiltshire," said Tom.

"The General was present there," Dumbledore explained. "A source informed me he was due to inspect it today."

Paling, James sat quickly. "If he caught Harry —"

"He would interrogate him and learn quite a few troubling facts in the process. It is my belief that he has taken Harry to the Palace."

Lily covered her mouth. The Potters were suddenly terrified.

"Palace?" said Tom sharply. "What palace?"

"_Your_ palace," James growled.

"I don't have a _palace_," Tom snapped.

James and Lily looked at him startled. Glaring, Tom turned to Dumbledore, anger rising like a viper. "You send me here—"

"Tom—"

"— knowing my counterpart has free reign over Harry—"

"He will not kill Har—"

"He will!" Tom barely registered that his wand was in his hand. He never should have gone to Dumbledore. One misstep and Harry might be … he might be …

Dumbledore rose but his wand remained in his pocket.

"He will not kill Harry. Of this I am certain."

"_How?_" Tom roared. "How can you _possibly_ know that?"

"Because I know _you_, Tom. The Lord General would have been alarmed enough by Harry's presence to inform the Dark Lord."

Tom's insides vanished. His heart froze in his chest.

"_The Dark Lord?_"

"Like I said," Dumbledore repeated heavily, "much is different here. In our world, the Dark Lord — you, if you may forgive me — conquered wizarding Britain over twenty years ago. The man known as the _Lord General_ bears a striking resemblance to you. He is the Dark Lord's son."

Dumbledore's gaze was piercing. Tom could barely breathe. He could see in Dumbledore's eyes the unspoken word: _Horcrux_. The mysteries of this world snapped into place. The Lord General was not a new fanciful title his other self had created after the Carcerem, as Tom had originally thought, but a Horcrux. Which meant … which meant …

"The Lord General will be shaken by Harry's arrival and will most likely seek information rather than kill outright. For now, time is on our side."

Tom disagreed.

"You don't know me nearly as well as you think you do. The Dark Lord will _kill_ Harry."

"Put yourself in the Dark Lord's shoes. For nearly two decades you have had utter control. The Order of the Phoenix is scattered and outnumbered. Uprisings are few and far between. You are secure in every sense of the word and then you discover new, unsettling information. Information which might affect you. _What do you do?_"

Tom felt sick.

"I learn everything."

"Exactly! You will not kill Harry until you have pried all that you can from him. He is too important."

"But how do we get him out? How can you be sure that this person will retrieve Harry before it's too late?"

"I know because Mrunog never fails."

"Mrunog Gudar? The goblin?"

Dumbledore smiled and it was almost smug.

"The Dark Lord enjoys glamor. When he constructed the Palace he made sure it would be the grandest building in all of Europe. Goblins were put to the task and goblins have their own ways with magic, especially when it comes to metal and stone. They created a special and secret fireplace and then bricked it over. Only a goblin can activate it and the only exit has been linked to this house and that fireplace." Dumbledore pointed at the empty hearth behind him. "Mrunog has achieved a high ranking in the Dark Lord's circle. He is granted full access to the Palace."

Magic surged at Tom's fingertips, longing to burst free. Blood pounded in his ears. He cut his eyes to the fireplace behind Dumbledore. Cold. Empty.

"While we wait, I ask for your permission to relay what you've told me," Dumbledore continued. "It will be good for us to be on the same footing."

"I don't care. Tell them whatever you want." Tom couldn't return to his seat. He couldn't take his eyes off the fireplace. He strode toward it and paced up and down, gripping and re-gripping his wand.

"You're too young to be You-Know-Who," said James.

"I spent half a year inside the Carcerem with your son," Tom replied, still pacing, still glaring. "It reverted my age in the process."

"What's the Carcerem?" said Lily.

Tom pinched his eyes shut, feeling that he was seconds from going mad.

"A highly dangerous artifact," Dumbledore explained. "It traps sworn enemies, gifting them the opportunity to make amends."

Tom's prowling steps sounded suddenly louder in the silence that fell.

"When did this happen?" Lily asked.

"Shortly before Harry's eighteenth birthday," Dumbledore answered.

"And Harry … Harry was never …"

"No," Tom heard Dumbledore's soft reply.

As he paced, he spied the look the Potters shared: amazement and sorrow. He paused, once more wishing to understand how Harry's life here had veered off so dramatically, but before he could ask, the fireplace roared into life, sparks flying. Tom spun back around just as Harry shot out of the towering flames. He banged straight into Tom's midriff, knocking them both flat.

.

* * *

**xXx**

The snake was spitting in Harry's ear. They were falling, falling, falling and then smashed headfirst into something very solid. Harry cried out, his head throbbing worse than ever. The ninazu slithered from his shoulders, but something else — _someone_ else — was gripping him by the arms, pulling him up from the floor —

Blinking against the splintering light, Harry saw the lips … the refined nose … the sharp cheekbones —

"NO!"

Harry swung his arm, but the Horcrux caught him, squeezing his wrist. Half blind, Harry fought. Kicking, punching. If the Horcrux got close enough, he'd bite him—

"Harry — it's me!_ It's me."_

Chest heaving, Harry stilled and the Horcrux's face came into clearer definition. Harry sucked in a breath.

"_Tom._"

His voice came out as a sob. He sagged into Tom's arms, clinging to him as Tom buried his fingers in his hair, holding him close.

"You're okay," he murmured. "You're okay."

_I'm not_, Harry thought, shaking. But he could pretend. If he kept his head tucked against Tom's chest, blocking out the horrible, glaring light and just breathe … he could do that.

The fingers left his hair. They slipped under his chin, making him look up. Harry winced. He kept his eyes shut.

"Look at me."

Worried he might throw up, Harry shook his head.

"Harry, I need to know. Look at me. Please."

Bracing himself, Harry opened his eyes and the pain — Harry had never experienced such pain from Legilimency. He recoiled, crying out as if burned. He felt that there were others around him — voices that he half knew. A cool glass was suddenly pressed to his mouth.

"Drink, Harry," Tom urged.

He swallowed without hesitation.

.

* * *

**xXx**

Unconsciousness claimed Harry and he sank into Tom's arms. In the shadows under a glass cabinet, the ninazu watched.

"What's happened to him?" James demanded, staring down at Harry, terrified.

"Legilimency," Tom answered darkly.

"We have a room upstairs," said Lily at once.

Tom slipped his arms beneath Harry and carried him as gently as he could. Lily led the way, Dumbledore and James right behind him. They left the kitchen and moved upward.

"Here," said Lily, breathless, opening a door.

Tom carried Harry inside a small bedroom and placed him on the bed.

"It will probably be best for Harry to wake with just Tom present," said Dumbledore, "to reduce the stress."

It was clear that James and Lily wished to remain, but they nodded, stepping back into the hall. Dumbledore turned to Tom.

"Is there anything I can do?"

Tom shook his head, just as stiff as James Potter.

"Then I'll leave you with him."

Tom gave a short nod, his jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached. With a soft click, Dumbledore closed the door behind him and Tom tugged off Harry's shoes. He put his focus on unbuttoning Harry's jeans, stripping him down to his boxers. His magic pushed against Harry's spine. Like a marionette on strings, Harry sat up, chin drooping, arms rising up above his head. Tom worked Harry's sweater off and found his T-shirt plastered to his skin, drenched in sweat. He removed it too. Harry's skin erupted into gooseflesh. He released the spell and Harry's limp form gently settled back onto the bed. Kicking off his own shoes, Tom clambered up beside him, wrapping him up, brushing back the damp fringe and placing a kiss to his forehead. Periodically, a tremor shuddered through Harry, but he remained asleep.

How much damage had been done? Tom wouldn't know until Harry woke again. He estimated the shot glass of Dreamless Sleep would last half an hour at best. Not enough time. Not near enough time for his mind to repair itself after such aggressive Legilimency. With a short wave of his wand, Tom soundproofed the room. The buzzing of a bee against the window and the distant drum of voices from below vanished instantly. With a swish, the curtain covered the window, dimming the light. He pulled the covers up over them and cradled Harry close.

.

* * *

**xXx**

A softness, like sunlight diffused through gossamer silk, bathed Harry's eyelids. He was swathed in gentleness. He opened his eyes and it took a great deal of effort for them to focus, but after a few slow blinks, he recognized the face staring down at him.

"Tom."

The softness left, replaced with the feeling of being hit over the head by a beater's club. He must have overdone it again. He kept forgetting he couldn't hold his liquor the way Tom could.

"I had the worst dream."

Tom shifted closer, the bed dipping slightly. "Oh?"

Harry's head pounded. He rubbed his forehead, wishing the room was darker. How much _had_ he drunk?

"It was awful. I was friends with _Malfoy_. You were there, but you weren't _you _and_—" _Harry cut off, seeing Tom's expression. His heart clenched. "No."

"Harry."

"_No." _Tears surged forward before Harry could stop them. He felt incredibly stupid — so fucking stupid — but that didn't make the tears stop. It only added fuel to the fire, memories flashing. "_No. God, no._"

Tom gripped him by the shoulder, pinning him to the bed. "Harry, it's going to be okay."

But Harry's eyes darted about the room. It wasn't their suite in Peru. It wasn't their cottage. It wasn't anywhere that Harry knew. And he remembered … he remembered …

"It's real," Harry whispered. "We're really —"

"In another world."

"Why?" Harry demanded, panicking. "Why would Fawkes _do_ that? Why—"

"Harry, I'm going to get us back home. I'm going to make sure of that, but you _must calm down_. Tell me where you appeared."

"I — I don't know. I first thought it was the Ministry. I ran into Eddie. But now I think it was some kind of warehouse. They were making … clothes, I think."

"A factory?"

Harry nodded and the movement caused a sickening stab of pain — like a needle poked in the eye. He grimaced, rubbing circles into his temple.

"Malfoy was there. Umbridge, too. They were _nice_ to me and you—" Harry broke off sharply.

Tom's voice hardened. "What did the Horcrux do?"

"Questioned me. He thought I was an impersonator."

"And what did he do when he discovered you weren't?"

Harry had a suspicion that Tom already knew.

"Vol—"

Tom slapped a hand over Harry's mouth. "Don't say it_,_" he warned and Harry felt, if it was at all possible, even sicker.

"You-Know-Who," he corrected quietly, mouth dry. "The Horcrux knocked me out. I wasn't in the factory when I woke up again. Both of them were there." Harry couldn't meet Tom's eyes. His vision blurred. He blinked up at the ceiling. "I don't miss the old you," he said, barely audible.

Tom released a heavy breath. He lowered down beside him. As Tom pressed a kiss to his cheek, Harry realized he was covered in a cold sweat.

"How much did he find out?"

"A lot." Harry was shaking. He hadn't noticed that either, not until he was wrapped up in the stability of Tom's arms. "He knows about us. He wanted me to tell him how I stopped you."

"Yes, I imagine he'd be very curious about that."

"I don't know how much he found out," Harry went on, his voice now trembling. "I couldn't stop him. I couldn't—"

"It's all right, Harry," Tom soothed.

"I'm — the other me. He's a —" The words wouldn't come. It was stupid. It didn't matter. He knew logically that what his counterpart got up to was no reflection on him, but Harry still glanced down at his left forearm.

"He's a Death Eater," Tom supplied softly. "I know. I met him."

"You did?" said Harry, alarmed.

"You appeared in a factory that had a Horcrux present. I landed in my father's old manor, though it's been severely refurbished. Your double was there."

Harry was stunned. "What did he do?"

"Tried to kiss me."

"He _what_?"

"They seem to be in a relationship, your counterpart and the Horcrux. He mistook me for him."

Harry was thrown. "But Vol — sorry — You-Know-Who was really upset when he realized we were together. Like _really_ upset. How can my counterpart and his Horcrux be together and he not know about it?"

"We're both very good at keeping secrets. They may be hiding it from him. Though there is another possibility."

"Which is?" Harry asked warily.

Tom looked suddenly tired. "It's far harder to turn against someone if you love them. It's possible that my other self ordered the Horcrux to seduce him."

Harry had been wrong. He _could_ feel sicker.

"That's disgusting."

"It's strategy."

"That doesn't make it less disgusting."

Tom was silent and then he said quietly, "Before the Carcerem, I did not understand love. Not really. I saw it as hormones and chemicals, easy to manipulate and subjugate. And I utilized my skills often. If the Horcrux had been placed to keep your double in check, I would not be surprised if his methods turned insidious. It could be that what shook my counterpart wasn't the knowledge that we're together, but that I'd fallen in love with you. But none of this," Tom continued, suddenly in a firmer voice, "matters. We are not them. Nothing in this world has anything to do with us."

"But —" Harry tried to sit up and gasped as a new pain flared red hot into life.

"What is?" Tom asked at once. "What's wrong?"

Harry winced. "Could you check something for me?" Carefully, he rolled onto his side, exposing his back. Tom inhaled sharply.

"Is it bad? It feels bad."

Tom didn't answer, but Harry felt magic wash over the bruise and with each pass the pain diminished.

"Who did this?" Tom asked, voice as hard as iron.

"The Horcrux. His stunner was a bit heavy-handed."

"You're lucky your spine wasn't fractured."

"That's me," said Harry bitterly. "Always lucky."

Tom gripped him by the shoulder and gently returned him to lying on his back and suddenly Harry was being kissed, full and deep and stomach-swooping.

"They'll never touch you again," Tom promised. "Are you hurt anywhere else?"

Harry shook his head.

Tom carded his fingers through Harry's hair. "Are you in pain?"

Harry knew he was referring to the Legilimency that had ripped through his mind, but the headache was dwindling. The light didn't bother him as much.

"I'm okay."

Tom looked like he didn't believe him, but he let it drop.

"Where are we?" Harry asked.

"Somewhere in the Murk Fields."

Again, Harry glanced about the room. His clothes, strewn on a chair and the floor, cluttered up an otherwise tidy bedroom. How had he even ended up here? He remembered falling through a fireplace … Mrunog Gudar —

He sat up so fast, Tom cursed at him.

"_Will you lie still?"_

"Dumbledore," Harry breathed. "Mrunog Gudar. He helped me escape. He said _Dumbledore_ had sent him." He turned to Tom, his heart racing. "Is Dumbledore … is this…"

"A safe house for the Order of the Phoenix," Tom answered shortly. "Yes."

Harry's mouth fell open.

"I knew you were trapped in that factory, but it was sealed," Tom explained. "Even I couldn't get inside it. I needed help so I went to the only person who would believe my story." Tom glared at him, waiting for him to put two and two together.

"You went to Dumbledore," Harry said slowly.

"I told him everything. He's agreed to house us until we find a way back home. The _bird_," he added acidly, "will be of little use as it is currently no larger than a newly hatched duckling."

Harry reeled. Dumbledore was alive; his double was a Death Eater; a Horcrux walked among the living; and he and Tom were sandwiched in the middle. For what purpose? Why had Fawkes done this?

"I'll get you some tea. _Stay put_," Tom added firmly. He placed another kiss to his forehead, rose from the bed and slipped from the room, closing the door behind him.

Harry's heart pounded a violent rhythm that made his fingertips tingle.

He was a Death Eater.

He was a _Death Eater_.

Harry couldn't comprehend it. There'd never been a moment when he'd been tempted. Had this other Harry been forced? Blackmailed? Tricked?

_That must have been it_, Harry thought feverishly. _He did it to save someone. _

A vision of Ron or Hermione or Ginny captured by Voldemort sprung into life and he, Harry, agreeing to join his ranks in order to save their lives. Harry liked that picture. Liked it so much, he was confident it had been the reason.

He couldn't hold still. Sliding off the bed, he retrieved his jeans and sweater, forgoing his damp T-shirt. Straightening his glasses, he eased the door open, and, whisper soft, moved down a hallway toward a staircase. Traveling down the stairs, he heard voices. He and Tom weren't alone in the house and they … they sounded like …

"Can you believe this? It's incredible."

"I know," a woman replied. "Our Harry. Our Harry saved the world."

His foot slipped on the last step, staring at a half-shut door to the right. He _knew_ those voices, but it was impossible. He moved so swiftly, his feet could have been on skates. He was at the door, listening, heart thundering.

"Do you think we can trust him? Riddle?"

"Dumbledore does and you saw how frantic Riddle was about getting Harry to safety."

"But he's _You-Know-Who,_" said the man, strained.

"Harry?"

Harry flinched. So absorbed in listening to the voices on the other side of the door, he did not hear the soft tread of feet approaching from behind. Dumbledore — whole, alive, kind-faced Dumbledore — stood before him.

"They're —" Harry's vocal cords weren't working. "They're—"

"Alive," said Dumbledore quietly. "Would you like to see them?"

_Yes._

Yes and no and yes and no.

Harry couldn't form words. He shook worse than when he'd been tortured. He was stuck, his mind on a perpetual loop, revolving around the single searing word: _alive._

He couldn't do it. He couldn't possible. This wasn't a dream. This wasn't a hallucination. This was _real_. They were alive. His mother. His father. _Alive. _

Dumbledore's gaze was as knowing as ever. A universe's distance didn't matter; the man could read Harry like a textbook. He held out a hand.

"I often find that company helps when we are faced with difficulty."

Throat tight, Harry took Dumbledore's hand as if it was a raft in a buckling sea. Dumbledore beamed, and together, they entered the room. At once, his mother and father broke off their conversation.

"Harry!" his dad cried, relieved. "You're up. Thank Merlin."

They hurried to him.

A tremor shot through Harry. His grip on Dumbledore tightened.

His mum's brow furrowed in concern. "Harry, why are you crying? Do you need a potion? Are you in pain?"

Harry blinked, noticing the tears on his lashes for the first time. With each second that he stared in silence, his mum and dad grew more worried. They glanced at Dumbledore.

"Harry?"

He released his death grip on Dumbledore and leapt, grabbing his dad, hugging him, burying his face in the crook of his neck. Two sets of arms wrapped around him, squeezing him tight.


	9. Three Feathers

_The first time Harry did magic, he felt safe._

Here was something he could control. If he was cold, the fireplaces burst into action. If he was bored, he sent dancing lights shooting across the ceiling, mimicking the constellations. If he was angry, he slashed his pillows, turning the bed into a massacre of stuffing.

Magic was armor and sword, power and security. Magic was salvation when loneliness crept out from the shadows.

_Look what I can do_, Harry would think fiercely, sending paper birds on an aerial dance about his four-poster, when all he wanted was to go _home_. Home with his mum and dad. Home without the heavy weight of expectation following him everywhere he went. Home where he could just be Harry.

Or, at least, he assumed home would be those things. He actually had no idea. He'd never set foot in Godric's Hollow.

The birds spiraling around his bedroom on this sleepless night were not made of paper. Since gaining his wand at eleven, he'd advanced quickly: ice, fire. His favorite was smoke. They were like death's crows, swooping around his bed posts, leaving a trail of wisps behind.

Tomorrow he would turn fifteen and for the first time in a long time he was looking forward to it. Usually he hated his birthdays, the best day and worst day sandwiched into one.

Three hours on his birthday. Three hours on Christmas. The Dark Lord did not forgive easily. Harry suspected he never would. He supposed he should be grateful. Most of the Order of the Phoenix were either dead or in Azkaban. His parents were one of the few who'd chosen allegiance to the Dark Lord rather than imprisonment when Britain fell. Harry knew all of this. History lessons were conducted twice a week.

Six hours a year with letters in between. The best six hours and the worst. In the week prior to their visits, Harry always grew distracted during lessons, mentally collecting conversation topics, fearing the dreaded awkward silence, but he need never have worried for the silences were never awkward. They were kind and gentle, full of warm hugs and warmer smiles. It was only in the very beginning when his mum and dad entered the drawing room that things were ever strange between them, but only because Harry hesitated, his training to be formal raging war with the desperation to run out and meet them himself at the Palace gates, rules be damned. Harry wouldn't even say hello, the word catching in his throat, but he was always the first to move, the first to cross the rug and fall into their open arms. They would settle in a secluded corner somewhere in the North Wing and talk and talk and talk until Snape was standing in the doorway and Harry would swear that only twenty minutes had gone by.

"We'll write to you the moment we get home," his mum would always say, squeezing him tight.

Harry let his conjured birds dissolve away. He glanced at the clock on the wall. Twelve minutes to midnight. Confident that Neville would still be awake, Harry slid off his bed, donned his dressing gown, and slipped from his bedroom. He crossed the dark hall and knocked on Neville's door.

"Come in."

Sitting cross-legged on his four-poster, Neville's smile was more watery than usual, but he still welcomed Harry cheerfully.

"Look what they got me."

"It's not a toad!"

Every year, for reasons that Harry still did not understand, Neville's mum and dad gave him a toad for his birthday.

Neville's smile turned radiant as Harry joined him on the bed.

"What is it?" Harry asked.

"_Mimbulus mimbletonia!_" said Neville, rapturously. "Ever sense I read that book on magical plants in the library, I've wanted one."

"Why?" Harry asked after a pause, taking in the stunted, gray cactus. It was covered in small boils rather than spines. Honestly, it didn't seem much better than the toads.

"It's really rare!" Neville explained. "It shoots this awful smelling sap if it feels threatened — though I haven't tried that yet. It blooms in the winter and the flowers have incredible properties that increase agility and strength. Warriors used to uproot them and carry them around in pots. They'd brew the flowers before big battles and then set the mimbulus mimbletonia around their camps as booby traps, but doing that nearly led to its extinction, which is why this is so cool."

Neville gazed down at his slightly pulsating cactus fondly.

"Wow," said Harry. "That is cool."

"What d'you think your mum and dad are getting you?"

Harry shrugged. "Probably a book." They had last year, anyway. The neatly wrapped gifts never mattered to him though. He was always far too overwhelmed by just them being there. S_eeing_ them. Hearing their voices. _Touching_ them. That was the only gift that mattered to Harry.

They sat in silence, Neville gazing at his strange plant and Harry pretending to do the same but his mind was elsewhere. Finally, he couldn't hold it in any longer.

"The General's going to train me."

Neville's mouth fell open. "_What?_"

"I met with him after lessons today. He told me."

"_That's_ where you disappeared to," said Neville, dawning realization spreading over his face, and then his face darkened. "So it's happening."

Their futures had been an unspoken trajectory, one that both of them had known for as long as they'd been alive. To live under the Dark Lord's roof? To be privately tutored by his most trusted servants? Of course the Dark Mark waited for them. When he was younger, Harry had dreaded it, fear of disappointing the Dark Lord enough to make him break out into a cold sweat, but now, on the cusp of fifteen, Harry saw potential. He saw solutions.

"What's he like?" Neville asked, for he, like Harry, had never spoken to the Dark Lord's son.

Harry took a moment to find the right word. "Intense. He almost poisoned me."

"So like Snape," said Neville with a weak attempt at humor.

"Sort of. He's a little … I don't know." The word 'unhinged' toyed on Harry's tongue. He decided to keep it to himself.

"Why do you think the Dark Lord's splitting us up?" Neville asked. "Or do you think the General will train me too?"

"I don't see why he wouldn't," said Harry, though the fact that the General – _Tom_ – had only called for him and not Neville caused a distinct feeling of unease.

"Do you ever …" Neville broke off and Harry looked at him curiously. Neville's eyes darted about the room. He lowered his voice. "Do you ever think about … getting away?"

Harry stared. He barely moved his lips as he replied, "There _is_ no getting away."

"But if there was," Neville whispered, "would you?"

Harry mouthed, completely thrown. They were chained to the Palace, figuratively and physically. The wards kept them within the grounds. It was like walking into an invisible brick wall when they went too far. He'd gained enough bruises and bloody noses that Harry purposefully kept to the inner grounds. They weren't even allowed to go to Hogwarts as everyone else their age did. On the occasions Draco and his parents visited the Palace, he turned Harry and Neville green with envy at the stories he shared about the castle and the village of Hogsmeade.

"Of course," Harry breathed, "but there _isn't_." At the tightening of Neville's lips, Harry hissed, "_Don't be an idiot._"

"But if he's alive … my parents say—"

"It doesn't matter whether Dumbledore's alive or not," said Harry in a strangled voice, furious that they were even having this conversation. Like Neville, he looked over his shoulder, though they were quite alone. "He _lost_. It's because of him that we're in this mess."

Neville looked at his strangely.

"It's because of the _Dark Lord_ that we're in this mess. Our parents stood against him because they believed he was wrong."

"Neville—"

"And he _is_ wrong," Neville continued in a harder voice, as if he wasn't entirely sure whether Harry knew this. "He's a murdering tyrant—"

"I _know_, Neville."

"My parents are going to get me out," said Neville firmly. "They told me today. They're making plans. I bet your mum and dad are doing the same. We can get out together! The moment we're seventeen—"

"Don't you think we'd be more useful if we stayed?" Harry interrupted. "I'm not saying that I _want_ to be a Death Eater," he added swiftly at the stunned expression on Neville's face. _"_I just know that by being one, life will get easier for us. We'll be allowed privileges. We'll have influence."

Clarity fell upon Neville's face. Suddenly, he looked deeply sad.

"Oh, Harry."

"What?" Harry snapped, a rage he hadn't even realized he held bursting free. "_What? _Being a Death Eater is the only way we can fix anything. Don't you see that? Both your parents are pure-blood, but my mum's lower than a _squib_. Your mum doesn't have to work fourteen hours straight in a factory! Your mum isn't banned from the floo network or stripped of her wand every day! If I get high enough in the rankings —"

"The Dark Lord will never help your mum, no matter how many orders you follow."

"We're here for a reason," Harry gritted, defiantly.

"As punishment! Our parents were at the helm of the resistance. They were as wanted as Dumbledore! Taking us from them was his way to keep them in line! You _know_ this, Harry."

"I think there's more to it."

Harry had to believe that. He had to believe he had value. A hidden talent. A secret strength. Something the Dark Lord wanted and would eventually bend to. Something that gave him leverage.

"And what would your mum say?" Neville demanded. "What would she say about you killing Muggle-borns, all in the name of helping her?"

Harry wanted to punch Neville. He wanted to shout in his face that he couldn't say a _fucking thing _about what his mum would or wouldn't say. He clambered off the bed.

"Happy birthday," he spat.

He stormed from the room, but not before hearing Neville's quiet reply.

"You too."

The clocks chimed midnight.


	10. Chapter 7

The moment Tom left the bedroom, the urge to stride right back in and wrap himself around Harry hit him like a hammer, but he knew Harry needed space and to be honest, so did Tom. The sight of Harry's back, so purple it was nearly black, had Tom seeing red, a telltale warning that he needed to cool off before he blasted a hole in the wall.

He headed down the stairs and came across no one, but when he reached the last step, he heard the Potters' voices coming from behind a closed door. With no intention of joining them, he passed it and entered the kitchen.

He tapped his wand against a kettle and instantly it filled with water. He chose two cups from the cupboard and the soft hiss of the ninazu issued from beneath it. He'd completely forgotten about her.

Crouching down, he asked, "And what was your plan?"

The snake's pale face peeked out from under the cupboard. "I am confused. You smell like Master, but you aren't Master. You and the boy make no sense."

"The Dark Lord owns you" — Tom narrowed his eyes — "and yet you helped his prisoner escape?"

The ninazu coiled in on herself, shamed.

"I was tricked. He said he knew where there were toads."

Tom snorted. He stood and cracked open the kitchen's back door, birdsong erupting.

"No tricks. Enjoy the feast."

Intrigued, the ninazu flicked her forked tongue and then shot past Tom, vanishing into the grass. The kettle began to whistle. He shut the door and returned to his search for tea. He found a tin of Muggle-brand bags. Wrinkling his nose in distaste, he ripped open the packages, plopped them both in the cups and poured hot water up to the brims.

What would Harry do when he discovered his parents were alive?

Grimacing, Tom carried the cups out of the kitchen, trying to formulate the best way to tell him, but the door where he'd heard the Potters' voices was now open. Dumbledore's star-burst robes were visible and —

The tea sloshed over the cups' rims as Tom veered off course, bypassing the stairs and entering the room they were gathered. At the sound of his arrival, Harry turned from his parents' embrace. He looked furious.

.

* * *

**xXx**

Harry was beyond angry. He was livid.

"Harry—" Tom began.

"Sorry," Harry interrupted, speaking to his parents and Dumbledore, "but Tom and I need to talk. Could you give us a minute?"

"Of course," said Dumbledore cheerfully. "Lily, I've been meaning to get an update on your supply of bezoars …"

Tom shifted slightly out of the way as they trooped past. His dad shot him one final glance before clicking the door shut.

Tom opened his mouth, but Harry beat him to it.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Lips pressed thin, Tom set the cups of tea he held down on a side table.

"I didn't think it was the right time," he replied.

"The right time?" said Harry in a strangled voice. "Just when, exactly, did you think the right time would be?"

"When you wouldn't be hysterical."

"Oh? Am I'm being hysterical?"

"Harry—"

"Because why in the _world_ wouldn't I be _hysterical_?" Harry went on. "Why would anyone meet their dead parents and not go: Wow! Been a long time!"

Furious, Tom pointed his wand at the door, muffling the room. "_Keep your voice down. _They don't know."

Harry jerked as if he'd missed a step. "They don't — know?"

"That I murdered them?" hissed Tom harshly. "No. Dumbledore and I both felt that wasn't the best way to introduce myself."

Harry's knees gave out along with his anger. He dropped onto a couch, stunned.

"They have no reason to think otherwise," Tom explained in a gentler tone. "Though a great deal is different in our worlds, here, they are alive and so they expect the same to be true in our world. I'm sorry you found out the way you did. That was not my intention." His voice hardened slightly. "I _did_ tell you to stay put."

"I never stay put," Harry replied without thinking. "Do they … do they live here?"

"I believe so. Are you all right?"

Harry remained perched on the edge of the couch, feeling like he was a rubber band stretched to its limit. Any moment he'd snap.

"Yeah," he answered. "I'm fine."

"Harry."

"I'm fine," he repeated, and though his voice was a higher octave, though tremors shook his hands, he would say it again and again and again until it was true.

Tom's jaw tightened in frustration, but a soft knock on the door stopped the discussion from continuing. Dumbledore's head appeared around the door.

"Dinner will be ready soon."

"We'll take it upstairs," said Tom before Harry could speak.

Dumbledore seemed to hesitate, before entering the room and shutting the door behind him.

"I know how difficult it is to be under this roof for _both_ of you. There are other safe houses I could send you to, but I recommend that you stay here as it contains the two people who will be the most dedicated to your protection."

"Why did Fawkes bring us here?" Harry asked.

"I can only guess. He's been melancholy of late, though, to be fair, he is always melancholy when a Burning approaches. Tell me, do you possess a wand of holly, Harry?"

"Yes," said Harry, puzzled that he would ask such a question.

"And you, Tom. Your wand is yew, I take it?"

"Yes," Tom replied, his voice clipped.

"And they both contain a feather from Fawkes?"

"Yes," Tom answered shortly. "What does this have to do with anything?"

"Out of all the cores — dragon heartstring, unicorn hair — the phoenix is the rarest because the phoenix _gifts_ the material to the wand maker. Ollivander told me Fawkes appeared in his shop on a balmy night in August 1937. A year later, one of the two wands created from his feathers was bought, by you and your counterpart," Dumbledore said, peering at Tom over his half-moon spectacles. "Because of this act of giving, phoenixes stay connected to the wands they helped create, and in turn, to the witches and wizards the wands choose. I believe Fawkes sensed the pair of you. Sensed a healing and a bonding between his only two wands and brought you both here in a hope of helping two more souls find a similar end."

Chills spread up Harry's arms.

"That," said Tom, "is the most imbecilic thing I've ever heard."

"Is it?" Dumbledore asked, not remotely abashed. "It could be. Fawkes might have simply flown a bit too far."

"This isn't a game, Dumbledore," Tom snarled.

"No," Dumbledore agreed. "It certainly is not."

Harry sat up straighter. "Can Fawkes send us back?"

"Not at this time, I'm afraid. He will be full grown again in three and a quarter months. As to whether he will, I cannot say."

"_Excuse me?_" Tom hissed.

"Tom—"

Tom ignored Harry. He stormed toward Dumbledore, seething.

"I told you before, Dumbledore. We are not fighting your war."

"And I have told you, I do not wish for you to do so. What I am saying, Tom, is that I am no master of Fawkes. He has chosen to spend his days with me not out of force on my part, but of free choice from him. Bringing the pair of you here was entirely his decision; I am simply attempting to explain what his motivations might have been. I am no more able to order him to send you back as I am to order the sun not to shine."

"Are you saying that our departure is on the whims of a _flying pincushion_?" Tom bellowed.

"We will get you back," Dumbledore assured them. "But it will take _time_."

Tom ground his jaw and paced up and down the room, looking murderous.

"This house is secure," Dumbledore continued. "You are both safe here. I only request that you do not explore past the wards. Harry, does the Dark Lord know that Tom is here as well?"

"No," Harry said after a pause. "No, he doesn't."

"Good. I imagine he was quite disturbed by what he discovered from you."

"That's one way of putting it," said Harry darkly.

"If he learns that you _both_ are here, he will become even more determined to find you. I still have some trusted contacts among the Unspeakables; I will theorize with them about possible methods of transportation. Your wand, Harry, do you still have it?"

Tom looked at Harry sharply and Harry blinked like a deer caught in the headlights.

"No," he answered, registering this for the first time and it left him even colder.

"I'll see what I can do about retrieving it. In the meantime, you can borrow one of ours. We've collected spare wands over the years." Dumbledore turned for the door. "I imagine you are both worn and weary. I will leave you to your dinner."

But the one question that had been burning inside Harry ever since he'd seen the poster over the factory workers — _Magic is Might_ — burst out of him.

"How did it happen? How did he take over?"

"We lost," said Dumbledore simply.

"But the Prophecy…"

"Yes. Tom told me about that. You see, I have not been Hogwarts' headmaster for twenty-one years," Dumbledore explained. "Evan Rosier is. He must have been the one the Prophecy was addressed to."

"So You-Know-Who has known the Prophecy all along?" said Harry.

"It seems likely," said Tom.

"I could expound upon the details of the differences between our worlds to exhausting measures, but I don't think that would do either of you good," said Dumbledore. "Eat. Rest. We will look after you. We will sort this out." He put one hand on the doorknob, but stopped and looked back over his shoulder. His lips formed a soft smile. "And Harry, happy birthday."

.

* * *

**xXx**

Rosier bowed deeply as Voldemort stepped out of the Headmaster's fireplace.

"My Lord, how may I be of service?"

Voldemort cast his eyes upon the portraits lining the walls. They did not meet his gaze.

"I have business to attend to in the castle," he told Rosier. "I will not need your assistance."

Rosier was not swift enough to mask his relief. He bowed again.

"Very good, My Lord. I wish you success in your dealings."

Voldemort left him, descending down the spiraling staircase. He strode through Hogwarts, not coming upon any ghost or professor. Not even the poltergeist dared to cross his path.

He came upon the door he sought and entered the bathroom. It had taken him years to find the Chamber of Secrets. He had looked everywhere, inspected every suit of armor, every painting, every fireplace, every stone statue, but for naught. The Chamber eluded him. He'd nearly given up until one lucky afternoon when he'd overheard Walburga Black demand that the girl's bathroom on the second floor should not permit mudbloods for it was clearly of Salazar Slytherin's design, all thanks to an etching of a snake on one of the taps.

Like a film on a loop, Voldemort saw Potter plunge a fang into his diary. He closed his eyes against the memory, fortifying himself for what must be done.

"_Open._"

The floor vibrated, the sink lowered down and the long, black pipe was revealed. He did not slide downward, but flew like smoke on the wind. He flew past a recently shed skin. He flew past bones, rat and human alike. He flew until he reached the Chamber with its pillars of serpents. He touched down at Salazar Slytherin's feet. He wondered if the great wizard would make the same choice if he was in Voldemort's position.

"_Speak to me, Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts four."_

Far overheard, the statue's mouth opened and the basilisk emerged, his great body uncoiling from the depths of the statue.

"Hello, old friend. Did you enjoy the Muggles I sent?"

The basilisk bowed his head, allowing Voldemort to touch him, and the snake hissed in appreciation. Voldemort had wanted to bring the basilisk to the Palace, but the snake had been against it, insisting that Hogwarts was his home.

"You are troubled," the basilisk observed.

"I am. I have come to a painful realization." Voldemort's hand stroked the smooth scales that shimmered under the torchlight, shimmered as if they were encrusted in emeralds. "I have a vulnerability."

The basilisk snorted and Voldemort, against all odds, felt a half smile tug on his lips.

"I did not foresee it until now," he amended. He stepped away from the basilisk, taking in the sweeping chamber, his youthful hideaway. The hours he had spent down here, dreaming and planning his future. He knew he would never return to it after today. He drew his wand.

"_Avada Kedavra!_"

Surprise crossed the basilisk's face before it fell to the ground, its heavy coils making the floor shudder.

"It was necessary," Voldemort whispered over the corpse.

He waved his wand and flames engulfed the snake's body, filling the Chamber with smoke.

.

* * *

**xXx**

Harry was distinctly aware of how bright the kitchen was. He felt that suddenly he had perfect vision. His mother's hair was not simply _red_. Orange and gold and even hints of plum glinted in the strands. His father sported a week old stubble.

Harry stood like a fool, tongue-tied. What do you say to the people you'd always longed to speak to? Looking just as hesitant, his mum and dad stood across the table.

Breaking the silence, Tom asked, "Do you have wine?"

"Only butterbeer," said his dad. "They're in the pantry."

Tom's expression turned stony.

"Get me one?" Harry asked.

"Only for you."

Harry blushed.

"Sit, sit," his mum insisted. "Dinner's almost ready. We didn't have much time, but we've fixed up some of your favorites."

Harry stared at her blankly. "You didn't have to—"

"Don't be silly," said his mum. "It's your birthday!"

But it wasn't just his birthday, Harry realized. It was also his counterpart's. And where was he? He should be here, in Harry's place. Not god knows where doing god knows what.

Tom joined him at the table and handed him a butterbeer and Harry mentally shoved aside the unease his double sparked within him.

"Here we are," said his mum, levitating an enormous shepherd's pie, a dish of buttered peas (Harry grinned at Tom, who rolled his eyes), seared tomatoes, and for desert, his dad presented a stunning treacle tart.

"This is … this is … thank you."

His parents beamed.

.

* * *

**xXx**

Snape had not been his sole reason for visiting Hogwarts. The only tame herd of thestrals resided in the Forbidden Forest and Harry needed one. A Portkey would have done the job quicker, but Portkeys could be traced. Thanks to the horse's incredible speed, Harry arrived to the Sahara by sunset.

And it was _still_ hot.

The thestral touched down on the crest of a dune and Harry dismounted. Grimacing, he transfigured his black robes to white, covering his head. The thestral flexed its wings, stretching its neck luxuriously in the heat.

"Show off," Harry muttered, his glasses slipping down his sweaty nose. He pulled out his wand and quickly located the marker he'd left in his last search. "Point me."

The holly spun on his open palm and jerked to a stop. Harry set off to his right, continuing his long northward trek. Of course Voldemort would hide it in the Sahara. Harry supposed it could be worse. The rain forest, for instance, or tucked instead the heart of a volcano. A year ago, when he'd realized the vastness of the task before him, Harry had sought help from the locals, but the moment they realized what he was looking for, they'd all emphatically brushed him off. The Vanishing Sands, they called it, a mysterious place on the dunes where no one ever returned. The sun cast his shadow long and narrow. How many more months would he have to search? Sand slid under his feet as he climbed a dune that looked like every other dune, the thestral meandering slowly after him. A strong wind kicked up and Harry turned, protecting his face. The wind blew past him, chasing itself over the next sandy hill, and he felt it — that sizzle under the skin that had nothing to do with the heat.

He was close.

Heart thundering, Harry closed his eyes and focused.

_Where are you?_

The threads of magic he knew so well — as well as his own — sang out to him, as haunting as siren song. He turned a quarter to the left. Was the heat radiating off the sand or was that wrinkle in the air an advanced Disillusionment? Carefully, Harry stepped closer to it.

Without warning, the Dark Mark burned red hot on his skin. He doubled up, hissing from the pain.

"_Fuck."_

The Dark Lord wanted him. Did he know where Harry was? But how could he? _Tom_ didn't even know. The mark burned again and Harry knew there was no time to dawdle. He dug out his personal Portkey from the depths of his robe. Flying back with the thestral would take too long. He set another invisible marker at his feet.

_I'll be back,_ he promised.

"Go back to Hogwarts," he told the thestral. "Go!"

As the thestral expanded its wide, leathery wings, Harry gripped the Portkey in his fist. With a tap of his wand it glowed brilliant blue. Instantly, he was yanked by the navel. A blink later, his feet slammed onto hard ground. He was in the Palace's Apparition Chamber. Swiftly, he transfigured his robes back to their previous state, his sweat chilling so fast, goosebumps erupted.

The fireplace behind him burst into life and Peter Pettigrew tumbled out of the hearth. Not sparing Harry a glance, Pettigrew ran past him. Harry quickly followed, knowing exactly where they were both headed. Harry's mouth went dry as he entered the Founders' Hall. Every Death Eater was present. There hadn't been a mass meeting in over a year. Quietly, Harry wormed his way through the ranks, taking his place next to Snape.

"You're late," Snape muttered under his breath.

"I got in before the —"

A loud echoing bang sounded, making a few twitch in their places, as the doors to the hall sealed shut. Snape lifted a black eyebrow, unimpressed. Silence in the hall fell; all attention turned to the raised pedestal in the center of the hall where Voldemort stood.

"Thank you for coming so swiftly." He spoke in barely more than a whisper, but his voice carried clear and sharp. "Some of you already know why I have summoned you this evening."

Farther down the line, nestled between his parents, Draco shot Harry a frightened look.

"This afternoon, an individual infiltrated Factory Seven. No lasting damage was done, and the culprit was apprehended. Most unfortunately, after I questioned him, he escaped the Palace."

Shock and surprise rustled through the ranks. Harry was alarmed. For anyone to escape the Dark Lord was a monstrous feat. To do it inside the Palace was something else entirely.

"Someone helped him," Voldemort said softly.

A different sort of ripple ran through the Death Eaters as Voldemort's glare scorched over them.

"This traitor will be found," Voldemort promised. "I will see to that personally. As to the boy who fled …"

His eyes shifted, fixing upon Harry.

"His name is Harry Potter."

Harry blinked stupidly, sure that he hadn't heard right. The Death Eaters buzzed about him.

"He came to us from another world," Voldemort continued. "It is paramount that he be captured. Unlike our Harry, this visitor is not a Death Eater."

Harry's mouth dropped open. Not a Death Eater? How could he not be a Death Eater?

"I want him brought to me alive. The one who does so will be greatly rewarded."

Down the line, Alecto and Amycus grinned at each other.

Bellatrix stepped forward. "My Lord, how did this happen? Are you sure it was not an Order impostor?"

"I questioned him myself, Bella, as did the Lord General."

Harry's eyes darted to where Tom stood, arms crossed, leaning against a pillar, his face impassive as ever.

"How he arrived here is one of the numerous mysteries I intend to solve," said Voldemort, his eyes burning with murder. "Find him."

At once, the Death Eaters dispersed, moving to the ends of the hall. Harry had the impression Snape wished to speak to him, and Draco was trying to catch his eye, but Harry dodged them both, weaving his way to Tom.

"Come with me," Tom ordered. They left the hall and Apparated to Riddle House. Tom marched to the Drawing Room, heading straight to the giant liquor cabinet set against one wall.

"Why were you late?" Tom asked, pouring himself a shot of Firewhisky.

Harry knew all of Tom's moods and tonight's was bloody. Inside his robe pocket, the Portkey rested. If Tom asked to see it … if he inspected it …

"I was with the Finland Giants," Harry lied. "I thought I could convince them to join us."

"And?" With a click of glass on glass, Tom returned the bottle to its tray.

"They need more time."

"Of course they need more time, but I already told you that."

Wariness slipped into Harry's chest. "This other me, you really questioned him?"

"Oh, yes," Tom breathed. Glass in hand, he strolled to him and it took everything Harry had to remain perfectly still. "He looks just like you, but I suppose that goes without saying, as he is you."

"He isn't," said Harry without even pausing to consider the matter.

"Incredible, isn't it?" Tom mused, standing nearly chest to chest. "How the threads of our lives seem nothing more than choice and chance. For example, isn't it extraordinary that you serve me" — Tom trailed a finger along Harry's left arm, directly over the Dark Mark hidden under the sleeve — "while your twin defies me."

"You don't know that he's against us," said Harry. "Just because he didn't take the Dark Mark —"

"Because he didn't take the Dark Mark tells me everything. You don't seem particularly upset by this revelation. Why Harry, are you not as loyal to your Lord — _to me_ — as you have claimed to be?"

"Of course not. I'm _surprised—_"

"Surprised. I see. Not disturbed? Not furious? Merely _surprised_." The room seemed to drop in temperature from his icy rage. "Have I wasted my days on you? Is this doppelgänger a foretelling of your true feelings? Are you nothing more than that Longbottom fool?"

A tremor shook Harry's hands. He clenched his fists.

"No."

"No?"

"No," Harry repeated, vehement. "I serve you. I always have."

"Always?" Tom breathed.

"Yes."

"There is no order I could give you that would make you pause? No command that you would not obey? Not even, say, the execution of _yourself_?"

"If he's a traitor to you, he's a traitor to me," Harry stated simply. "Is that what you intend to do once you've found him?"

Tom did not reply, but the answer was clear. He threw back the glass, swallowing the whiskey in one go.

"Where do you think he went?" Harry asked.

Tom smirked.

"Where all lost boys go when there is nowhere left to run. Home."

.

.

.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

This will be the last chapter I post here as the next will have explicit content. From here on out I will be posting the remainder of **When the Phoenix Cries** exclusively on Archive of Our Own. If you would like to continue to read, please join me there. My username is the same (purplewitch156). Hope to see you next week!


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